


Stag Night for Two

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Blow Jobs, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock, Chaptered, Domestic Fluff, Drunk John, Drunk Sex, Drunk Sherlock, Emotional Infidelity, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Evil Mary Morstan, First Time, Fix-It, Friendship/Love, Hand Jobs, Hospitals, Infidelity, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, Knee Grab, Light BDSM, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mention of torture, Minor Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, POV John Watson, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sad Sherlock, Season/Series 03, Shooting, Shower Sex, Switching, Top John, Top Sherlock, Topping from the Bottom, Violence, Work In Progress, completed work, mary morstan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begins with the stag night scene in The Sign of Three. John grabbing Sherlock's knee leads to much more. Incorporates elements from His Last Vow now, as well, and has kind of gone totally off the canon rails. In the best way, I hope.  </p><p>Lots of lovey, porny goodness, and later some good violence and villains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Knee Grab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infamous Knee Grab, and what should have come after.

These characters aren’t mine, yadda yadda. AU Sign of Three.

 

I pause, crouched on the floor between our chairs, my hand gripping just above Sherlock’s knee. I look up into my best friend’s face and laugh sloppily, “Sorry! Iduntmind.” 

“Iduntmind, either.” Sherlock slurs out. We both laugh, but I don’t move. Some part - some very small, annoying part - of me knows I should take my hand off Sherlock’s leg and sit back in my chair, but I can feel the hard muscle of his thigh tensed beneath my palm, and the bonyness of his knee cap, and our eyes are locked, and I can’t - don’t want to - move. 

I feel myself tipping forward - fuck, I am SO buggering drunk - knees hitting the floor with a thud, and suddenly, the soft insides of Sherlock’s thighs are on either side of my ribs and my hands have slipped farther up, resting on the tops of Sherlock’s long thighs. I’m kneeling on the floor between Sherlock’s legs, and I don’t want to move away. My bloody already bizarre stag night has just taken a much stranger turn.

“John? Whaddareyoudoon?” Sherlock leans forward until his forehead is almost touching mine, looking at me intently. God, his eyes are gorgeous. I remember being mesmerized by them in so many little daily moments, when I lived with him, and I could watch him unnoticed. Watching them change colour from translucent grey to golden green, hazel freckled and twinkling, always sparkling with intelligence and curiosity. Sometimes, I just couldn’t help myself from staring into them. Now is one of those times. 

“Falling, obviously, you idiot.” I try to push myself backwards into my chair, or, I try to talk myself into doing that, but my head is buzzing and there’s a flipping, roiling feeling in my stomach, and I don’t actually move. I realize I’m rubbing circles on Sherlock’s thighs with my thumbs, and gripping into his muscles with my other fingers. My hands feel so hot where they’re touching him, and my limbs feel weightless, kind of...floaty. Sherlock is just looking down at me, his pupils large and black and glittering, ringed with turquoise, and the look he’s giving me makes my stomach flip over. What the bloody fucking hell is happening here? 

I finally gather myself enough to start to push backwards, “Sorry, love.” Aw, shit, where the hell did THAT come from? Well, I know where it came from, but I never allow those things to come to the surface. Those are feelings to be bitten back, hidden, put away, except very occasionally in the middle of the night, when I let my mind wander...oh, shit, John, just SIT THE FUCK UP.

Sherlock spits out a laugh, his eyes half closed, leaning back in his chair, “Dijdyoojustcallmeluv?” 

I’m STILL kneeling on the floor. Still have my hands on Sherlock’s thighs, which now felt warmer than they did a few minutes ago. In fact, I realize, his skin is very, very hot suddenly. Why can’t I MOVE? Oh, I know why, I do. “No. NO. Well, yeah, I think I did. Yeah, yes. I did.”

Sherlock’s grin grows. I do love that smile. His eyes crinkling up, flashing merrily, a smile reserved for me only, that always makes me feel warm and happy in way no one else in my life has ever made my feel. He never genuinely smiled at anyone else - there was always an element of condescension when he smiled at other people, of mocking them. I grin back, the flipping in my stomach turning into something else...something...hot, and tingly, and not altogether unwelcome. Sherlock reaches up, pulls the strip of paper off his head, looks at it. 

“Oh! I was ME? That’s rather lazy, innit, John. You defnitly could’ve come up with summit better.” His accent has lost a bit of its normal posh lilt, sounding a bit more East Enders than Downton. 

I pull mine off, too. “Madonna? You didn’t know who MADONNA was?” I snort, “Oh, Sherlock. You are a right moron sometimes, you know that?” 

Now we’re both laughing together, in that intimate, inside joke way that we’ve always had - the laughter that makes Greg and Molly and Mary (oh, Mary!) and all our other friends roll their eyes and huff, because they never get it, never get what Sherlock and I find so funny. And I don’t know that we really know either, we just, find *each other* so bloody funny. And usually in situations that no one else in the world would find humor in, like standing over a fresh corpse at a crime scene, or during an autopsy. We can be some really sick bastards together, without shame. 

I still haven’t moved. I don’t know why I haven’t moved. My knees hurt, my bad leg is getting stiff. But Sherlock’s thighs are so warm around my ribcage, and my belly is tingling, and I’m breathing rather faster than I was a few minutes ago, and I just don’t.want.to.move. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at me, “Do you need help getting up, John? You’ve been kneeling like that for quite some time now.”

“I...no. I don’t need help. Oh, you want me to get up, sorry,” I start, finally, to move backwards, but then Sherlock is laying his hand on top of one of mine, his thumb pressing into the bony hollow of the inside of my wrist, exerting some pressure, holding my hand on his leg.

I look from our hands to his face. His teeth are nibbling at his lip, his brow furrowed, nose wrinkled, looking at our hands on his leg. “What are you doing, Sherlock?” I choke out, my voice hardly above a whisper. Oh my god, I’m getting hard, I’m so turned on. Finally, finally, after all this time. And then I think, why NOW? Why, why, after all these years when we could have done this - because I know what’s happening, oh, I do know now - why did we wait until days before I was getting MARRIED? Oh fuck, fuck, why didn’t we do this three years, four years, ago? Before he left me alone?

“I don’t actually know, John, but I just...don’t want you to stop...touching me. I don’t know why.” Sherlock looks up into my eyes, and he has that confused, somewhat childlike expression that he gets when he can’t understand some kind of normal human emotion or behavior. It’s a look that had always made me feel sort of soft in the knees, and tonight, it goes right to my groin like a bolt of electricity. I am so hard, pressed against the zipper of my jeans, I can barely stand it. I want him. So badly.

“Sherlock, we can’t. We just...Mary...I can’t, I can’t...” Even as I’m saying this, protesting, every fucking molecule of my body wants to press myself against him, hold him, touch my lips to his mouth and his neck, say all things out loud that I’ve never said outside of my own head. Not.gay. NOT.GAY. That’s what I’ve always said to everyone, my line, my running gag. 

But inside, when I was truthful, I couldn’t bear the thought of Sherlock being with anyone else, in any way, ever. And I could never commit to anyone either, because Sherlock&John was infinitely, inextricably stronger and better and hotter than any relationship with any girlfriend could ever hope to be. Sherlock&John, like we were one entity, one person. I thought of us that way, as one. And back then, after the day was over, and I would close my eyes at night, alone, knowing he was downstairs, “You love him…” would float across my eyelids. I would hear his voice whispering in my ear, some nights I swore I could feel the weight of him in the bed next to me. I dreamt about him every night.

Mary only stuck because Sherlock was dead. 

And now he isn’t. And my hands are on his thighs, and our faces are centimeters apart. I can feel him breathing on me, smelling of beer and cigarettes, and I look down at his lips. Oh god, why did I do that? His lips are another part of him I have always loved, my eyes often involuntarily wandering down to them when we were talking, or drinking tea, or when he was reading me something from the paper. I love watching his mouth move, whether it’s around words or around the warm ceramic of a coffee mug. So often, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from imagining those lips around my...

NOT.GAY.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is so deep right now, gravelly with drink. And I love - have always loved - how he says my name - Jaaawwwn. Only he says it that way, making my horribly, stupidly common name something much more interesting, unique. He makes it HIS when he says it. “John, what can’t we do?”

And watching those full, moist, perfect lips move around my name, all my resistance dissolves. I just can’t deny it anymore. Fuck it. I just don’t care anymore. I’ve been trying for five years - FIVE years - to deny this, this bond between us. Someone called me his friend, and I said colleague. Someone mistook me for his date, and I flipped out. Not gay, I said. Just friends, I said. Flatmates, I called us.

But no. We have always been so much more, from the moment we laid eyes on each other. And I’m sick of denying it. Sick of pretending that this ridiculously brilliant and bizarre man isn’t the center of my world. Because he is. I would rather watch YouTube videos with Sherlock in our dark, dusty flat, with body parts stacked in the fridge, than fly around the world on a grand adventure with anyone else. He is everything to me. Everything. And with one drunken, lurching knee grab, I finally have had enough of pretending.

“This.” I close my eyes and surge forward, pressing my lips to his, the hand Sherlock wasn’t holding flying up to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, pushing him harder into me. Oh god, oh god, this is amazing. I am snogging Sherlock - his tongue is parting my lips, wet and hot and like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I can hardly breathe. Someone is moaning, I can’t tell which one of us. I want to kiss him harder, deeper, I want our tongues tangled together. I feel weak.

Suddenly, Sherlock pulls back, breaking the kiss. He’s looking at me suspiciously, eyebrows cocked, lips pressed tightly together. That face has started to form, that face I can’t stand, when he’s dissecting me. We can’t have this. We can’t think about it too much, or we might decide not to, and I can’t take that now. I’m already breaking my promises to Mary. It’s already in motion, and I’ve wanted Sherlock for so fucking long, I can’t stop now. I grab his head, bring our faces together, licking his lips, “Don’t think, Sherlock. Don’t think,” I’m murmuring against his mouth, our breath mingling.

“John, oh god, oh god. I've always...always...how long...how long have you...?” Sherlock mumbles as I lick down his stubbly jaw to his neck and start sucking out a love bite on the soft skin there. He groans, soft and deep and open. I know him so well, I can hear in that moan every emotion he’s feeling at the moment. He’s scared and stunned and thrilled and happy and desperate, and I know we won’t stop now.

“Forever, Sherlock. Since I handed you my phone at Bart’s, and our fingers touched, since you winked at me, since forever, mate. The minute - the second - I saw you. I don't know why I couldn't before...” I speak between kisses, between pulling his skin into my mouth and nibbling it with my teeth. He’s writhing a bit now, his head rolling on his neck, little gasps and “Oh, oh, oh,” escaping his throat every time I touch my teeth to him.

There. There’s a love bite on his neck, purple and red, swollen and gorgeous, and I can’t erase it. It’s proof. It will be there tomorrow, needing explanation. I don’t care. I’m kissing his collarbone now, leaning my chest into his belly, and I can feel he’s hard, his cock poking into my stomach. Oh Christ, I’m going to fuck him tonight. It’s all I can think about. All I can think about is making him grunt and writhe and come, hard, calling my name. 

“But...you're supposed to get married...Mary...” Sherlock’s hands are in my hair now, as I’m moving up, slipping my knees onto the chair, putting my legs on either side of his, straddling him, our bodies closer than they’ve ever been before. I can feel him shivering beneath me, and I feel a rush of blood to my head, realizing how turned on Sherlock is, and that I’ve done this to him. 

I press a fingertip to those perfect lips, “Shhh. This is just me and you now. Just us, like it’s always been. We’ll worry about everything else later. But right now, I need you, I want you. I just...I need you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is looking at me, his eyes now emerald green with hazel flecks, and they’re saying everything we haven’t said for five years, yearning and sad and joyful, “Okay John, okay. You just, you surprised me. I thought you only saw me as...as your friend. I never expected you to...to want me, like I...like I always wanted you.”

“Well, clearly I do, you idiot, so let’s shut up now.” I can’t not kiss him for one more second. “Come here, Sherlock.” I pull him towards me by his shirt, kissing him hungrily, pushing my tongue into his pliant mouth. Oh, god, he tastes good. He tastes like everything that’s ever turned me on, and everything familiar and wonderful and perfect, and like home. 

And then he’s kissing me just as eagerly, and down my neck, his hot mouth raising goose pimples all over my body. Christ, this is like nothing I’ve ever felt, I’m bursting with desire, I’m euphoric. Sherlock could do anything - ANYTHING - to me right now and I would let him. He’s pulling my jumper over my head now, and my skin is tremulous under his touch. How long have I wanted these beautiful, spidery white fingers roaming over my skin, over my nipples, tracing the scar on my shoulder? 

I feel like I’m going to blackout from the sensation of his hands on me. Literally black out. There are black spots swimming in front of my eyes. I’m lightheaded.

His hands are rough, from handling chemicals and stringing his violin, and they’re strong, stronger than they look. I have a sudden flashback of us handcuffed together, running through alleys, panting and high on adrenaline, the night we met “Richard Brook”, and Sherlock saying, “Take my hand.” I had been so surprised at how strong his hand had been, and how normal it had felt to have our fingers entwined together. Oh, god, I had hoped he would kiss me that night, just so I wouldn’t have to hold back anymore. But he didn’t. We always held it in, and now here we were...not holding it in. It's exhilarating. And I have never wanted anyone more in my life, have never been shaking with desire like this. I want to be inside him, take him, make up for all the years we missed.

“Oh, John. I love you. I do, I love you.” Sherlock kisses my chest softly, tenderly, his hands pressing into the small of my back. A chill shudders through me, looking down at his lips on my skin. 

“Don’t ever leave me again, Sherlock. I can’t live without you, I wanted to die when you were dead. Don’t leave me, I love you.” I’m kissing the top of his head, his soft curls, frantically, my hands running up and down his back, and I realize now I’m rocking my hips against his and he’s pressing up into mine.

“I won’t, I won’t, John. I’ll never leave you again. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. My wonderful John. My amazing John.” He kisses across my collarbone, my shoulder, and I’m suddenly practically howling with need, feeling us rocking against each other. I need him now. 

“Sherlock. Let’s go to bed. I want more than this.” I slip my legs out from around him, take his hands in mine, squeezing his fingers, and pull him up against me. I want to be inside him, skin against skin, rubbing each other raw. Oh god, I have never felt this intensity of want. Only Sherlock could make me feel this way.

His head falls forward, catching my mouth in a shockingly forceful kiss, biting my bottom lip hard enough to make the ripple of arousal in my belly turn into a hot, throbbing ache in my cock and my balls. His eyes are boring into mine, and his voice is hoarse and dark when he says, “Fuck me, John. I want you to.”

Hearing him say those words makes me gasp; I feel like all the air has left my lungs. “Oh, fuck, yes, Sherlock. Yes, right now. God, I've never wanted anyone like this.”

We kiss and touch and grapple at each other all the way down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom. He closes the door with his foot, and pushes me up against the closed door, holding my hands above my head and kissing me all over my face and neck until I can barely breathe. He pulls at my hands, and still kissing, we tumble onto the bed. Our clothes come off quicker than I even realize they could - I don’t even know who is taking what off of who - and suddenly we’re both naked, and Sherlock is reaching into a drawer, handing me lube, and he’s flipping on his stomach.

“I think that five years of foreplay is quite sufficient, don’t you, John?” He slides backward towards me, the muscles in his beautiful back rippling and quivering. Oh my god, his fucking arse is perfect. I lean over and lick up one cheek onto his back, and he whimpers and jumps. I lick down the other cheek, and lightly bite where his arse meets his leg. He sweeps forward, legs straightening, breathing staccato and uneven.

He rocks back up, pushes his arse toward me, his face grinding into the mattress. His voice is desperate, “Please John. Please. I want you inside me.”

And Sherlock begging me to fuck him is about all I can take. I put lube on my hands, and run one finger down the center of that perfect arse, touching the tip of one finger to Sherlock’s entrance. He shouts out,muffle sit by turning his face completely into the sheets, and I push my finger all the way in. Oh Christ, it feels good. I can feel every band of muscle tightening around my finger, I can feel his pulse, warm and steady. 

“Oh, John!” Then he’s making little humming noises and whimpering louder, as I put in another finger and start moving them in and out and around, getting him ready so I don't hurt him.

And the sight of that is so dizzyingly arousing, after so many years of waiting and fantasies and denial, that I feel like I’m going to come just from watching my fingers inside of him. “Oh, Sherlock, I have to...I have to fuck you right now, or I’m going to come.”

“Do it, John, please. I want you so badly. I’ve always...always wanted you so badly.” Sherlock’s whole body is flushed and mottled, his muscles quivering and twitching, and he’s gripping the edges of the mattress.

I take my cock in one hand, guiding it into Sherlock gently, and grab his hair with my other hand, pulling his head back roughly. He gasps, but it’s pretty evident he likes it. Once I’m inside him, I put my other hand on his hip, pulling him back towards me. Oh, god, he’s so tight, so tight around my cock, and I just can’t hold it back anymore. I thrust into him all the way, and yank on his hair at the same time. We are both keening loudly and rocking together, and I’m slamming into him, hard and fast.

How could I have ever resisted this? I look down at Sherlock, at his beautiful back and my hand tangled in his curls. He's the love of my life. It's so clear in this moment, with our bodies joined together as our lives have always been. What was I doing all those years?

I slip my hands to his narrow waist, and we find a perfect rhythm together, rocking and sighing and melding into each other. Christ, this feels so natural, so right, and so real. Every relationship I’ve ever had, every girlfriend, every shag, has instantaneously been rendered completely insignificant. This is the only thing that’s ever mattered, will ever matter. John&Sherlock, one person. 

I speed up, and both of us are breathing noisily and hard, and I can feel the heaviness in my lower stomach, the tingling and shuddering beginning to gather, nerve endings feeling like they’re on fire. 

“Harder, John, harder, fuck me so hard, as hard as you can...” Sherlock is crying out loudly, and that’s it. I’m just completely undone. I never imagined he would be saying these things to me in bed - he hardly ever curses - and I am just totally, utterly undone by him.

I come inside him, shudderingly and hard, grunting and gasping, digging my fingers hard into his skin, and rambling curses, “Fuck, Sherlock, oh bloody fucking Christ, oh god…” and as I do, I feel him tightening around me. His shoulders tense, and his knuckles are white on the edges of the mattress, and he cries out my name in that way he does, and then I see white spattering across the sheets and I feel his muscles tensing and untensing around my cock.

I breathe out, hard, run my hands up his back one more time, and roll heavily off of him, flopping on the bed. I’m boneless, leaden and weightless at the same time, my head is humming with white noise. Sherlock scoots toward me, still on his stomach, and nuzzles his nose into my shoulder. I smile, sleepily, worn out, and still a little drunk, and reach my hand over to lay it on his hip.

“Well, that was one hell of a stag night, Sherlock.” I laugh, and then he does, too, and then suddenly we’re both doubled up laughing. We just laugh and laugh until our stomachs hurt, still naked on top of the sheets.

Eventually, we curl up together, his head coming to rest on my chest, those damned sexy curls drifting across my collarbone, and I wrap my arms around him. He sighs and snuggles closer to me, and pulls the bedspread over both of us. I’ve never felt like this. This is RIGHT. This is what we were always supposed to be. I’ve never felt so perfect laying next to anyone else, not even Mary. 

Oh, Christ. Mary. I can’t possibly get married now. Sherlock was my life before, is my life now. Mary was an interlude. A nice one, true, but THIS, this is what my life is. At Baker Street, with Sherlock. I’ll have to face the consequences of that tomorrow, but for now, I have everything I need or want, right in this flat, in this bed.

“Sherlock? You awake?” I whisper, brushing my knuckles over his hip. He shivers a little against my hand.

“Mmmmm.” I can tell he’s barely awake. 

“I love you. I want to come home. I want to come home to Baker Street. With you.” I press my lips up against his forehead, feeling happier than I have in three years. Well, honestly, happier than I’ve ever felt, because this is Sherlock - my best mate, my everything, and we’ve finally done what we should have been doing all along. Everything’s better than it’s ever been. 

“Of course, John. You *are* home.” Sherlock is barely intelligible, warm and heavy, drifting to sleep in my arms.

I smile, feeling a warm weight spread through my whole body. Our legs are tangled together, and I can feel his belly moving against my side as his breathing slows down, and his nose is tucked into my neck, his arm heavy across my stomach, and I just close my eyes and whisper, “Yes, yes, I am.”


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the stag do, Sherlock and John can't keep their hands off each other. Basically a PWP chapter.

I wake up the next morning sticky and sore and sweaty and uncomfortably hot, tangled in the blankets. Sherlock is gone, presumably out on a case, or possibly just making tea. My mouth feels like the floor of a taxicab, and my head is throbbing. Christ, what a lightweight I’ve become. I used to be able to drink almost anyone under the table. 

I drag myself out of Sherlock’s bed. I’m desperate for a shower. I have to think. What am I going to do about Mary? I can’t go back. Don’t want to, even if I could. But fuck, it’s two days before our fucking wedding. I feel like a complete dickhead. But I don’t really feel as if I cheated on her though I know that’s technically exactly what I did. I feel more like I was cheating on Sherlock with her, and now the world is back to normal.

I pad down the hall to the loo, cradling my head. Oh, Christ, I feel like shit. The only thing that doesn’t feel like shit is the memory of Sherlock underneath me, writhing, panting, hands on my hips. Okay. Getting hard already. Need to stop remembering that.

I turn on the shower as hot as I can bear it, and stand there, hot water beating on the back of my head and running down my spine, scalding myself clean, until the water starts going cold. I feel slightly more human, though I notice some bruises that must have happened while we were tumbling about the flat in our drunken snogging the night before. That makes me smile, the memory of Sherlock pushing me up against the bedroom door before we fell into bed, kissing me desperately, Sherlock’s arm over me, holding me tightly as we fell asleep. An unfamiliar warm happiness spreads through me as I towel off. I have never felt this happy. Not in my entire life.

Where is Sherlock? The flat is dead silent. 

I pull on the jumper and jeans from the night before, walk into the quiet kitchen, and put the coffee on. God, there is nothing to eat or drink in this flat. From the state of the coffee pot, Sherlock hasn’t been making much of that, either. He needs me home. He needs me to take care of him. I chug some aspirin down with a tepid glass of water, look round the flat and see my coat over the back of my chair. I grab my phone from the front pocket. No texts. I toss off a quick one to Sherlock: 

Hey, love. Last night was lovely, miss you, where are you? JW

Text Mary? No. I am not ready for that yet. She hasn’t texted me or called me anyway. Which is a bit odd. She should be wondering where I am, by now. I tuck my phone in my back pocket, so I won’t miss the buzz when Sherlock texts back. I sit down at the table, the kitchen filling with the scent of perking coffee, and try to un-crick my neck. Christ, I’m bloody sore. What an old man I am! I’m laughing to himself. I open up a newspaper from the day before and just intuitively began to scanning for something that could be a case. Old habits and all that.

As I’m pouring my coffee and hoping to god there was cream in the fridge, I hear the front door click open. “Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson?”

I hear Sherlock’s familiar two at a time stride up the steps, and then there he is, windblown and ruddy cheeked, with a tin of evaporated milk in his hands. He looks a bit insane. 

I pull a face, trying not to laugh, “What are you doing?” 

Sherlock hesitates, as he often does when he’s trying to be kind and failing, or thinks he’s been caught out doing something wrong. He holds up the tin, “We were out of cream, and I knew you would want it when you got up, so I went out and got you some. Well, sort of. Speedy’s was closed, and I had to walk down to the green grocer, but they didn’t have any, all they had was tinned, and…”

The first thing I notice is he said “we”. “We” were out of cream. It’s like I’ve never been away from Baker Street.

“Oh, Sherlock. You actually went out to get me cream for my coffee?” I smile, my heart feeling like it’s bursting. Sherlock can be so oddly, but genuinely, sweet and touching, “That’s very...thank you.”

“What? Not good? You didn’t want tinned, I know, but...” Sherlock is starting to ramble a bit, as he does when he got unsure. I step over and stop him with a finger to his lips. Sherlock looks at me with that slightly childlike look he gets, a look which makes me feel like grabbing him and kissing him as hard as I can.

“It’s lovely, it’s fine. You did something thoughtful, Sherlock. Ta.” I give Sherlock a tight squeeze around the waist and a peck on the lips and take the tin of milk. “Come have coffee with me. I was just looking through the paper for a new case. Haven’t checked the blog yet this morning.”

Sherlock pulls his scarf off and sits down at the kitchen table. He accepts the coffee I hand him, and we sit here in companionable silence, flipping through the papers, sunlight pouring over the table. It’s like the old days again. Except better. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket with a bit of dread, expecting it to be Mary. “It’s Molly. She says there’s a corpse we should check out. What do you reckon?”

Sherlock shrugs.

I can feel my brow furrowing. “What’s going on with you this morning? You’re not acting like yourself.”

Sherlock shrugs again, then looks up and meets my eyes, “John. I have...an addictive personality.”

“I never noticed.” I have a really, REALLY hard time remaining deadpan.

“Yes, well. I’m afraid I’ll become addicted to you. Now that we’ve...This is why I never get into relationships. They’re so distracting. And now I can’t stop thinking of you. All morning, I have just been thinking of you. How your hair looked in the sunshine as you slept, how your lips felt on mine last night...” He’s rambling. I put my hand on Sherlock’s knee to stop him.

“That’s called being in love, Sherlock. It’s okay. We...this is something new. We had to push each other away from the forefronts of our minds before, or we would have...you know...done all this. Years ago. But I think we’ve both been holding all this back for so long, it’s just coming on very strong. All these feelings are surfacing now and they’re very...powerful. I haven’t stopped thinking about you either. In fact, the thought of you is kind of driving me crazy.” I put my hand over Sherlock’s, resting on the table, and look into Sherlock’s face. His brow is furrowed, nose wrinkled - the face he makes when he doesn’t understand something, and it’s making him frustrated. It’s one of my more favorite faces of Sherlock’s.

“But John, I can’t...I can’t work like this. I can’t clear my mind. I start trying to think about a case, and all I can think about is us...you know…us...like we were last night...” Sherlock stops talking, but a slow smile creeps across his face, and his eyes are intense, locked on mine. I can’t get a breath. 

I lean closer to Sherlock, until I can feel him breathing on my face. I touch the end of my nose to the end of Sherlock’s, and look up into his eyes, currently emerald and dazzlingly bright in the sunshine. “Us...what, like last night? Tell me.”

Being this close to Sherlock gets me shivering. Last night exploded something powerful between us. There is an electric charge in the air making my entire body tingle. Christ, I feel like a teenager. Be around Sherlock for 10 minutes alone and we’re shagging. But it has been a long time coming, such a dreadfully long time - and now we have years to make up for, all that repressed emotion and want and love. I'm bursting for him.

Sherlock closes his eyes, moves his nose against mine. Our lips brush lightly just so, and a shudder of desire ripples through me. My spine, my actual spine, is quivering. I wonder how much pleasure a nervous system can take before it overloads. God, I sound like Sherlock in my own head. 

I tilt my chin forward, meeting Sherlock’s lips with a bit more pressure, and immediately my breath is quickening and my face is getting hot. I can feel my heartbeat speeding up. Oh god, this is absurd. It's being sixteen, and if I touch a girl, I’m immediately hard. This is just the same, except no girl ever made me feel so intensely as Sherlock does.

Sherlock returns the kiss, his breath coming hard and fast, his skin heating up under my hands, and I slide them slowly up around Sherlock’s neck and into his hair. God, I love the feeling of my fingers in those curls. Sherlock’s lips are dry from being outside and hot from the coffee, and oh, now there’s one of Sherlock’s hands running up the inside of my thigh, and then we’re standing up, pressing ourselves together, our bodies fitting so perfectly, kissing messily and noisily and hard, and Sherlock’s hands are already up inside my jumper, rubbing warm palms over my belly and the small of my back, and I’m spinning us around as one body, and pushing Sherlock up against the kitchen counter. 

I tuck my face into Sherlock’s neck - Christ, I love his neck, the skin so soft and warm, and I’ve memorised every freckle, and I can feel Sherlock’s pulse thrumming away under his jaw, reminding me that Sherlock is really HERE, really ALIVE - and kiss his skin hungrily, licking and biting and rubbing Sherlock’s earlobe with my nose. I slide one hand down and untuck Sherlock’s shirt, put my hand inside, rubbing the soft part of Sherlock’s belly and the tip of his hipbone. My cock jumps in my jeans, my thumb is tingling on Sherlock’s hip - all I can think of are those hipbones pressing up against me, rocking and pushing, desperate and aching. And slick, hot skin, and...Sherlock sighs and squirms, grinding his hips into mine, and I forget where my mind was headed, and I’m just right back in this moment with him.

I can’t tell where my breathing ends and Sherlock’s begins. We’re both panting and whimpering, our mouths wandering all over each other’s necks and faces, and it’s nothing but hot moist breath and tongues and raw chapped lips and stubble catching on stubble, and I can feel Sherlock, so beautifully hard against my hip, so I push my pelvis forward, hard, provoking a choked moan from Sherlock. Sherlock grabs the edge of the counter with one hand to steady himself, and slides the other hand up onto the side of my face, “Oh, John. John, John. You make me dizzy. I’ve never...I don’t know what to do with all of this.” 

I am so hot, so fucking hot. I can’t stand it. I need to have him. I start unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, kissing down his neck onto his chest, flushed and blotchy with arousal, and then down to his belly, rubbing my face against Sherlock’s warm skin and murmuring, “All I know is I can’t keep my fucking hands off you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sighs, and puts his hands on my shoulders, pushing me farther down. His voice is shaking, deep and dark, as he says, “Or your mouth, John?”

Oh, Christ. I feel like someone has poured scalding hot water with ice cubes in it over my whole body. I’m hot and cold and shaking and my cock is jumping in my jeans, painfully hard. I grin, kneeling fully on the floor, and look up at Sherlock, whose head is thrown back already and breathing so hard I can see his stomach heaving in and out. “Yeah, Sherlock? That’s what you want, eh?”

I would have been a bloody fucking nervous wreck before last night about all the things I’ve never done sexually, with a man, but now, this is all so natural and right, and we’re doing this together, learning about each other and each other’s wants and desires...and suddenly, I realise I very much want to do this for Sherlock. Probably no one ever has. The thought makes me both sad, because it’s further evidence that no one has ever loved, really loved Sherlock before, and also aroused, because I’ll be the first, the first ever, to have my mouth on Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock is trembling, his warm hands on top of my head, just gently laid there, not pushing, not forcing. He nods. I unbutton Sherlock’s trousers, slowly, moving my hands over Sherlock’s hips, ghosting my fingers over the hard bulge in between, making Sherlock jump and whimper, his fingers curling in my hair. God, fuck, this is glorious. How could I have waited all these years for this? There were those moments I had hoped...but we never. Never let ourselves go.

I dig my fingers into Sherlock’s hips, yanking his trousers and pants down at the same time, eliciting an “Oh, John!” He puts both hands on the counter, gripping it tightly, keeping himself upright, and I wrap my hand around Sherlock’s bare left hip - god, it’s gorgeous, the curve of his bone under the pale skin - and tongue the crease between Sherlock’s leg and groin. He tastes like salt and soap, and I can't wait to get my mouth on him properly. 

“Oh, John. Oh, I can’t...I don’t know if I can keep standing up.” Sherlock’s legs are trembling terribly, his skin covered in goose pimples. 

‘Yes, you can, Sherlock. If you can jump off a fucking building and survive, you can stand against the counter while I suck your dick.” I lick down the length of Sherlock’s cock, making him cry out, legs now positively quaking. Putting my palms firmly against his hips, I sink my mouth onto him. Oh, the feeling of this! The hardness beneath such soft skin, the weight on my tongue, the salty taste of him, the smell of him, the soft, sweet sounds he’s making.. This is amazing.

I’ve never done this before, never even thought about it much, really. A bit, sometimes, when I thought of Sherlock...But not in detail. I just do to Sherlock what I like myself, licking the underside of Sherlock’s cock with the tip of my tongue, pressing into the vein, moving back and forth, letting my lips get to the very tip, sweeping them over the very end, then sinking my mouth back down fast all the way to the base, and swirling my tongue in circles over the head. 

Sherlock is moaning and shaking, his hands now gripping into my head, tugging at my hair with twitching fingers. It is such an incredible feeling to be able to do this to - for - Sherlock. To make him feel anything this intensely, to be able to let himself go like this. I don’t think this will ever NOT turn me on - knowing no one in the world could make Sherlock like this except myself. It’s the hottest thought in the world. 

I slide my hands around to Sherlock’s arse, feeling every little hair and curve and bump of his skin under my palms, and suck harder. Sherlock shouts out, pressing his hands into my scalp, and I know he’s about to come in my mouth. Somewhat surprisingly, I realise I want Sherlock to come in my mouth. I suck harder still, until I can feel his skin moving inside my mouth, licking the underside, letting my teeth just ever so gently graze the tip, and I feel Sherlock’s cock pulse and throb and he’s purring my name softly over and over, then suddenly his hips arch forward and I feel hot come filling the back of my throat. I gag slightly, but mostly, I feel like I’m going to come myself, it's so fucking hot to have him pulsing and shaking, and feel his come in my throat, taste it on the back of my tongue. My hips actually jerk forward, threatening to tip me over.

Sherlock pulses twice more into my mouth, his hips rocking forward slowly, making pleased little groaning noises in the back of his throat. I finally sit back, letting Sherlock’s cock slip out of my mouth, wipe my lips with the back of my hand. Sherlock slides down the front of the cabinet, his long legs going on either side of me, and leans his head back against the cabinet door. He’s still quivering, his face flushed and lax, beads of sweat along his hairline, his breath shuddering through his chest.

“John. That was. I. I’ve never. My legs are numb.” Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his head lolling from side to side. He looks absolutely gorgeous, his cheeks ruddy and tiny tendrils of sweaty curls framing his face, long black lashes resting on his pale skin. God, I want to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, until his lips are swollen and sore and I can’t tell where my mouth ends and Sherlock’s begins.

“Happy to oblige, Sherlock. Now come here.” I need him now. I lurch forward and kiss Sherlock deeply, pulling our faces together with a hand at the back of Sherlock’s head, and slip my tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock makes a surprised little gasp at the forcefulness of the kiss, but pushes his tongue into my mouth in response, making me tremble, and puts a hand on either side of my head, fingers ruffling my hair. I take one of Sherlock’s hands off of my head and move it down to my cock, which is about to explode if I don’t come soon. 

I feel Sherlock smiling against my mouth, and then Sherlock moves his other hand down, too, and he’s undoing my jeans, and moving forward, still kissing me, his tongue hot and wet and gorgeous in my mouth, and he’s pushing me back on the cold kitchen floor. He lays down next to me, half on top of me, his mouth almost impossibly hot against my neck. His hand slides into my jeans, and I feel like I’m going to come in seconds. My head twists up and back, and I’m moaning loudly, bolts of electricity shooting through my whole body. I feel my belly and and my balls tightening. Christ, I really am a teenager again, about to come in my fucking pants.

Sherlock shimmies my jeans down just far enough to pull my cock out, and then his hand on on my skin, and I know I can’t last even ten seconds longer. It’s building in my spine, my back is arching off the floor, my whole body going tight.

“Oh, John, yes, come for me, John, you are so...beautiful, you’re beautiful...” Sherlock’s voice is the tipping point for me; that amazing baritone voice that’s turned me on forever, and the way he says my name, and then I’m coming, spurting through Sherlock’s fingers, on my stomach, on his stomach, arms and legs shivering and shaking.

“Oh god, oh god, oh, Sherlock, Sherlock…” I can’t stop calling his name, coming for what feels like minutes, hours, Sherlock’s fingers still tight around my cock. His face is buried in my neck, hips rocking against my thigh, and we’re moving together, like one person, John&Sherlock, one person. Finally, I stop shaking, and I wrap my arm around him, pulling him as close as I can against me.

We just lay there for a few minutes, silent, still, listening to each other breathe. Finally, I turn my head to look at him, and his eyes are wide open, blue green and gorgeous, looking up at me. God, I love him. And I WANT him, so badly. I can't remember ever being so desperate for someone. How could I have ever thought I didn’t want him this way? I take his face in my hand, pull it towards me gently, kiss his lips slowly and softly.

“I loved doing that for you, you know. That was...bloody fucking hot, is what that was. I almost came just from sucking you off. That was brilliant.”

Sherlock grins, and nuzzles languidly into my neck, “It was rather, wasn’t it?”

“I just can’t stop myself. One day, maybe, I’ll be able to control myself around you, but Christ, right now, I just can’t. I just want to shag you silly all day. It feels like we should have been doing this for so long, and I just feel like we’re making up lost time.” I kiss Sherlock again, more deeply, taking his bottom lip between both of mine and sucking on it. “You can get me going just by looking at me. Look at you. You’re fucking gorgeous. Just gorgeous. And mine, MINE. I could go again right now.”

“Actually, you couldn’t. Your body is physically incapable of…” 

I put my hand over Sherlock’s mouth. “Shut up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes are bashful and playful, golden green and lovely, above my hand. I take my hand off of Sherlock’s face and trail a finger down his neck, “I love you, so much. I don’t...I think I’ve never actually loved anyone before. I thought I loved a lot of women, but, Christ, it was never like this. And I’ve loved you all this time, and then I lost you, without telling you I loved you, and now here you are, and I just can’t stop touching you, making sure you’re real, and showing you you’re mine, and loving you the way I always should have done.”

Sherlock props his head up on his hand and looks at me appraisingly. “I know I’m yours, John. I’ve always known that. When you...when I saw you, the first time…” Sherlock seems lost for words. “When you walked into the lab at St. Bart’s, and I looked up at you, I’d never, felt...well, anything, really...about another person. And you took my breath away. I actually stopped breathing for a moment when I saw you. And I didn’t know how to name it then, I didn’t know what to do with the data, but I knew that every time I looked at you, every time our knees touched in a cab, or someone mistook you for my date, or I made you laugh...it made me feel emotions I’d never even thought myself capable of. And, whether you ever reciprocated my feelings or not, I belonged to you. That much I knew.”

“I knew, too. I did. And I belonged to you, too. I always have. I’m sorry, so bloody.fucking.sorry. That I didn’t...that I couldn’t...sooner. I felt it that moment, too, and I just wasted so much time denying it. Even though EVERYONE else knew it. And now *I* can admit that we have always belonged to each other. I’m so sorry it took me so long, love.” I brush Sherlock’s curls back from his eyes and kiss him gently. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Let’s get off the floor now, okay?” 

Sherlock laughs, “Okay, let’s.” He gets to his feet and pulls me up with him.

“Oi, now I need another shower.” I look up at Sherlock, who is so unearthly and lovely right now, his pale skin still flushed and dark sweaty curls spread across his forehead, his eyes now soft grey and wide, and I can *feel* the hunger beaming out of my own eyes. Sherlock shivers a little at the look I’m giving him, and lets me pull him tightly to me. I breathe him in. He’s spicy and musky and smells like sex and fresh cold air and coffee. My hands wander over his back slowly, feeling wirey muscles and ribs and the curve of his spine. He squirms satisfyingly against me. I push his unbuttoned shirt off and it drifts down to the floor, “And so do you. Come on, then.”

“John, we just did…” Sherlock's voice trails off as he points at the floor. It's a barely felt protest, and he knows it. He allows me to propel him into the bathroom. I turn the shower on, and turn back to Sherlock, who’s leaning against the closed door.

“And I just want more,” I rip my jumper over my head - god, how did I still have that on? - and push Sherlock hard up against the door, “I can’t fucking stay away from you right now, I just can’t. I want you so badly, every part of you.”

I wind my fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pull his head back, lick his neck roughly. This is madness. It *is* like an addiction. My teeth scrape across his skin, and he makes a soft aaaahhh noise, digging his fingers into my shoulders. The bathroom is filling with steam. Sherlock is humming breathy little noises and he’s curled one long leg around my back. Christ, I’m hard again. It’s barely been ten minutes since we were laying on the kitchen floor. I’ve never felt so hungry for anyone in my life. I feel out of control a bit.

I kick off my jeans and push up against him, our cocks sliding against each other. Sherlock breathes out raggedly as I put my mouth on his neck, sucking hard, and I’m pulling on his hair. "You like that, huh? Like it when I pull your hair?"

He nods, biting his lip. He likes it a bit rough. Good, me too. All I can think about is being inside him, I don’t even care about the shower anymore. My whole body is quaking with lust. 

“I want you. Now. I want you right now, up against this door. Ah, fuck, oh god, Sherlock, I...I just can’t hold anything back anymore.” I can’t get close enough to Sherlock. I want to smell him, taste him, be inside him, come inside him, make him come, make him scream and writhe and shake. “And I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t, John. Don’t hold it back. I think the time for holding back is long over.” I shiver at the sound of him saying my name. He runs his hands down my sides, over the curve of my hips, down my thighs. My muscles contract under his palms, and he squeezes, pulls my hips closer to his.

“I love how your body feels, John. It’s so...strong, and sturdy, and it makes me feel...safe.” He burrows his face in my neck, and we’re rocking together, moving in rhythm. Sherlock&John, one person. 

We’re just rutting against each other, and I know we’re both right on the edge. I’m being rough. I’ve got Sherlock pinned against the wall with one arm, and I’m pulling his hair with the other, leaving raw red marks all over his neck with my mouth, biting him, scraping my teeth across the soft skin right on top of bone. I want to eat him alive.

“I’m not hurting you, am I? Tell me if I'm too rough.” I mumble against his neck.

“No, no. I like it.” Sherlock takes my chin in his hand and tilts my head back, kisses me lovingly and deeply, then touches the ends of our noses together, staring into my eyes. It’s devastatingly intimate to be looking at each other like this, when we’re naked and shaking, and pressed up against the door. “John. I love you. I love this. I want you. You’re not hurting me.”

I run my hands up Sherlock’s thin arms to his shoulders and take his face between my hands, “I just don’t ever want to hurt you. Ever.”

Sherlock shakes his head between my hands. “And I know you won’t. You never have. You take care of me.” He turns his face, lingeringly kisses my palm with warm, moist lips. “Now, why don’t you take me in the shower and…” His voice lowers an octave, “...fuck me. I want you to.”

“Oh, god, Sherlock.” I groan, red hot desire pooling in my stomach. 

He takes my hand, pulls me into the shower with him, turns and puts his arms around my waist. We kiss slowly, reverentially. Somehow, the frantic rutting of a few minutes ago has given way to something like worship, like we’re committing every part of each other to memory, all the parts of each other we haven’t shared for all these years. Our hands run all over each other’s bodies, gently, lovingly. Kissing soft and longingly.

Sherlock looks at me, his eyes soft and aching. “I’ve wanted this for so long, John. I never thought it would happen.”

That makes me want to cry, though I’d already known it. “I know, I wish you'd said something. Wish you'd kissed me, something. I wanted you to, so many times.”

“Say you’re glad this happened.” It's an order. He needs to hear it. I can’t help but laugh.

“Glad? I’m...beyond GLAD, Sherlock. I’m...I feel like I’ve never felt before in my bloody whole life. I feel like I don’t even know how I could have lived without this - without you - for so long. Glad doesn’t even begin to describe it.” I kiss him deeply, our tongues swirling together. My hand sweeps up into his wet hair, water running between us, and my heartbeat picks up. 

“John. I want you. Now.” Sherlock’s voice is breathless, his lips moving against mine. I can feel him growing harder against my stomach.

Wordlessly, I turn us, push us up against the shower wall. I run my hand down his side, lifting his leg so it’s over my hip, and push my index finger into him. This is so different from being with a woman, so much tighter, tenser. It's like nothing I've ever done, before last night, and it's brilliant. I can't imagine ever wanting anyone but Sherlock ever again. He hums, eyes rolling back, maroon flush creeping up his neck, and rocks his arse down onto my hand. I slip a second finger in, and he bucks forward, a hard gasp escaping his lips. He's rocking and pushing against my fingers now, his head rolling against the wall, his fingers digging into my back.

"Yeah, that it, gorgeous. That's it. Oh God, I love to watch you. You're so fucking beautiful." He's breathtaking, that delicate white skin flushed with desire, eyes half closed, his lashes wet and dark, those lush lips blood red. He looks like he's not even of this world.

He puts his foot against the tub wall behind me to brace himself. I’m kissing down his chest, trying to go slow, to remember this, not have it get lost in the frantic rush to come, or the desperation of wanting each other for so long. Tongue over his nipple, down the ripple of his ribcage, one hand on his hips, fingers moving inside him, feeling the heat from his body. His hands run down my arms, touching the gunshot scar on my shoulder, long fingers tracing up my neck into my hairline, his lips on my jaw, my eyelids, my temple, the inside of my wrist. 

Finally, I press closer, pull my fingers out, move my cock so it’s pressing up against him. “Yeah?” I whisper against his ear.

“Yeah,” he breathes, hands skimming over my back, making me shiver. 

I run my hands down his arms, entwine our fingers, press his arms above his head. I hold them there with one hand, take the other to guide myself into him. Oh, god, he’s tight. The water helps, but it’s so tight, and I feel the prickles beginning up my neck. 

As I push all the way in, or as close as I can get, with both of us standing up, I kiss him, and he’s gasping against my lips, hips already rolling forward. Oh, god, I love him so much, it’s hard to bear. To see him this way, he's so beautiful I could cry. My head falls forward onto his shoulder as I rock myself farther into him, his cock pressed between our bellies, hot water running down my back.  


“I love you, I love you,” I say over and over. I feel like I can never say it enough now. 

I can feel his muscles contracting around me already, and I look up at him. Christ, I have never seen anyone so beautiful. He’s watching me, watching where our bodies meet, and his eyes are black, pupils completely blotting out the irises, his cheekbones are blotched with colour, rivulets of water running down his face, over his cheekbones and the hollows underneath, his mouth open, lips wet and shining.

Suddenly, his hips press forward, I can feel his muscles tightening around me, and he wrenches a hand free of mine and grabs his cock. A dark ripple of pleasure runs down my back. "Oh, yeah, oh god, Sherlock. You gonna show me, baby? Come on, come on, then."

He strokes his hand up the length of his cock, looking me dead in the eye as he does. Oh, god. This is the hottest thing I've ever seen. He's waiting for me to say something else, staring at me, watching my reaction. I can barely contain myself.

"I want to watch you. Come on, let me watch." I'm rocking into him slowly. The water's going cold. I don't even care. My skin is electricity, pure crackling nerve endings, sparking with white light. "Did you ever think of me, Sherlock? Did you think about me when you wanked yourself, when I was just upstairs, thinking about you? Did you think of me when you came? Yeah, did you want me to hear you coming?" I'm whispering, my voice low and gruff, and I'm teetering right on the edge. I can't hold on much longer. 

Sherlock's breath becomes like little stutters, catching on every inhalation, uneven and ragged. Eyes closed, head thrashing from side to side. He's right there. I just need to push him that last bit. I drop my voice as low as I can, and tighten my fingers around his hipbone. "Did you think about how I would feel inside you?"

"Yes, John, oh god, yes..." Sherlock bites into his lip so hard he breaks skin, and I'm gone. We come at the same time, shuddering against each other, Sherlock's come pulsing onto our stomachs, both of us shouting out so loudly that I truly hope Mrs. Hudson isn't home. I’m almost sobbing with the wonder of this moment, and suddenly my legs won’t hold me anymore. 

I let his hands free, clutch at his shoulders so I don’t fall. His hands fly to my waist, steady and strong, and he says, “I’ve got you, John. I’ve got you.”

We stumble out of the shower, wrapping towels around us, and fall into Sherlock’s bed, still naked and wet. Sated and loose-limbed, I pull a sheet over us, and we curl towards each other, hands clasped between us. I can’t keep my eyes open for one more second. 

As I’m drifting off, I feel Sherlock lift my hand to his lips, draw them slowly across my knuckles. I smile, without opening my eyes, and hear him say, “You’re the only one, John. The only one I’ve ever loved. I'll never love anyone else.”

Those are the last words I hear before I’m asleep.


	3. The BreakUp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to talk to Mary. No porn, sorry!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously FIX-IT after His Last Vow aired tonight. I wasn't going to post this until later in the week, but I need to heal from that episode.

“John. John, wake up. It’s Mary.” I blink my eyes open. Christ, it’s bright. 

“WhatimeisitSherlock?” I mumble, half awake.

“It’s 1:12pm, and Mary has been texting you and calling you since 11:00. She’s extremely worried, John. Get up.” Sherlock’s tone is very businesslike. He’s anxious, I can tell. 

“Yeah, yeah. Here I come.” I kick my way out the bed. Still naked. Ok, let me get dressed. Where the hell are my clothes? 

Sherlock must have laid them out for me, because they’re on the chair next to bed. Along with a pair of his own pants. I can’t. I start to laugh. They’re like some kind of silk or something, and they’re kind of a purplish colour, and way too small. I may be shorter than him, but I’ve still probably got 30 pounds on him. And I would NEVER, in a million years, wear pants like these. I just can’t. In the end, I just pull on my jeans and be done with it. 

I’m still choking back laughter when I walk into the kitchen. Sherlock pushes a cup of coffee into my hands. “What are you going to tell Mary, John?”

I shrug, and blink at the intensity in his voice. “Well, everything. I mean, I owe her that, at least.”

“Everything?” Sherlock gives me a look that clearly says he thinks I’ve lost it. 

“Well, Christ, Sherlock, not DETAILS. But yeah, I need to tell her we slept together and I realized that it’s you I love, and that we can’t go through with this wedding.” As the words are leaving my mouth, I realize there’s a lump in my throat. This is going to be so hard. I DO love Mary. Just, not like I love Sherlock. And, frankly, Sherlock was first. It’s always been him, there’s no denying it anymore. 

“Do you want me to go with you?” Sherlock looks like that is about the last thing on the planet he wants to do, but I know he absolutely would if I asked him. He looks slightly terrified that I might take him up on it. 

“No, Sherlock, thank you, but I truly don’t. This is something for me and Mary alone. We...I owe her that.” Sherlock looks so relieved I can’t help but laugh. “I’ll..uh...go over there. I’ll probably be quite a while. And I have to get some things, you know, to bring home.”

Just saying that makes me feel calmer. I’ll be home, at 221B, with Sherlock, tonight. We’ll have tea, and he’ll pester me while I try to write...and then, like we’ve never done before, we’ll go to bed, together. Sherlock&John. I grab his hand and squeeze. “I’ll be HOME tonight. Home, with you.”

Sherlock squeezes back and hesitantly gives me a very shy kiss, all tight lips and nerves.   
“I’ve never done that before, John.” He looks almost embarrassed. 

“Uh, kissed me? No, I’m pretty certain we have done quite a bit of that that last 16 or so hours.” 

“No, just, not when, you know...I’ve never just kissed someone to kiss them, when we weren’t...And even then, no one really kissed me much, even during...before you.” He definitely looks embarrassed now, casting his eyes downward, not even looking me in the face. 

I hate people for how they’ve treated Sherlock. Absolutely hate them. And I’m not someone who hates people much, but he has been so mistreated and misunderstood. All his life. By almost everyone he dared to care about. Even me. “Well. That stops now, okay? We’re going to kiss plenty and for no reason, and just because we want to.” 

And to emphasize my point, I take his chin and pull him toward me. Give him a long, gentle kiss, the tip of my tongue just barely sweeping the inside of his lips. He kisses me back, just as gently, his hands curled against my chest. Rest my forehead against his, holding the back of his head with my hand. “I love you. I have to go. I’m going to go talk to Mary now. I’ll text you later.”

I put my lips to his neck quickly as I walk away, squeeze his fingers one last time. As I’m walking down the steps, he leans over the railing, “John?”

I look up, “Yeah, Sherlock?”

He smiles, big and wide, eyes crinkling, toothy, goofy, that smile no one else gets but me, that smile that I can’t help but return. “I’m incredibly happy, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been happy before. Ever. Not completely.”

“Me, too, Sherlock. Me, too. Love you.” And with that, I close the door to Baker Street, and I’m off to face Mary.

***

Mary is sitting on the sofa when I walk into her - our, technically - flat. She’s got a glass of wine in one hand, and a lit fag in the other, and she’s clearly been crying. A lot. Christ, I’m a complete shit. All the euphoria of being with Sherlock immediately descends into crushing guilt. Mary didn’t deserve this. 

“Where the FUCK have you been? I thought you were DEAD. I thought...all kinds of horrible things. Where.the.fuck.were.you.” She fixes me with a stare that makes me feel even worse. Because she doesn’t hate me. She loves me, and she’s been terrified, and I feel like the worst person ever.   
I want to run to her and hug her, but that’s definitely not an option. Not only would she punch me flat, but I don’t want to be confusing at all. This is over, no matter how guilty and awful I feel about it. 

“Mary. I. You’ve no idea how sorry I am…”

“You could have texted, John! Just ONE text, just to let me know you were alright. What were you thinking??? What were you DOING???” I’ve never seen her like this. She’s pacing the sitting room now, pulling hard on the cigarette. I’ve never even seen her smoke. 

And because I’m a complete arsehole, that’s the next thing that comes out of my mouth. “I didn’t know you smoked.” 

Mary whirls on me with the force of a tornado. “MY SMOKING??? That’s the issue at hand here? You’ve been gone for 18 hours, John. EIGHTEEN.HOURS. Without a word. You were going out for “a few pints”, you said you’d be home by 2:00. When you didn’t show up this morning, I figured you were sleeping it off at Baker Street, but then...John, it’s 2:30 in the afternoon! I was ready to report you missing. You didn’t answer your phone, Sherlock didn’t answer HIS phone, you two had dropped off the face of the earth.”

And because Mary ISN’T a complete arsehole, or stupid, she realizes it as soon as she says it. “Oh. OH. Oh, John. That’s what happened, isn’t it? I should’ve...oh, I need to sit down.”

Mary sinks onto the sofa, stubbs out the fag in bowl on the coffee table, and lights another. She puts her head in her hands, looks at me. I can’t find any words sufficient for this moment. 

“I fucking knew it. The way you always talked about him, the look on your face when you saw him. It was like an old lover had come back, THE lover, the one that got away. I thought if I...if I made friends with him, made him part of US, you and me, that it would...smooth those feelings over.” She laughs bitterly. “I guess that was pretty goddamned naive of me.”

I swallow, or try to. My mouth is dry as sand, sticky as paste. I’m overwhelmed by how guilty and shitty I feel about myself right now. I suddenly wish Sherlock HAD come with me. No, no, that would be infinitely worse, to have us both standing here in front of her, Sherlock&John, love bites on our necks, facing her like a death squad. No, definitely glad Sherlock didn’t come. 

“Mary. I. Yes, that’s what happened. And I am so, SO sorry. It’s just...been coming for a long time, and I never realized, until last night…” I can’t seem to finish any of my sentences. This would be so easy if Mary was awful, or petty. But she’s lovely, and smart, and funny, and my friend. She makes me laugh, and she made me better when Sherlock was gone. And I can’t hate her, and I don’t want her to hate me. Christ, I really don’t want her to hate me. 

As if she knew what I was thinking, she says, “I don’t hate you, John. I really don’t. Well, I hate you a bit right now for making me worry so much...but truth be told, I’m just the smallest bit relieved.” She’s downed the glass of wine, and poured another. “To have lived my whole life, half loved, sharing you with him...I don’t know if we could ever have been totally happy. You changed the moment he came back. You weren’t completely mine from then on. I guess you never were.”

“Mary. I don’t...I guess nothing I can say right now would make this any easier.” I’m lost for words. 

“No, John, I don’t think so. You’re leaving me, the DAY before our wedding, for the best man. No, I think this is about as hard as it gets. I’m going to be really angry for a really, really long time.” I move toward the sofa, and she pats the cushion next to her. “Go ahead. You can sit. I won’t kill you. Well, not right this second anyway.”

I sit down gingerly. “I do love you.”

“I know that. But he,” I can tell she can’t even bear to say his name right now. “He’s bigger than me. He takes up the whole room for you when he’s in it. Anyone can see that. You don’t even look at anyone else.”

It’s true. Always been. I can’t deny it. “He saved me. I was so lost, so alone, Mary. And he...he gave me a purpose again. He literally saved my life. I don’t know what would have happened to me if I hadn’t met Sherlock.”

She winces at the sound of me saying his name. She sighs, puts out the cigarette, leans back on the sofa and looks at me, her lovely eyes big and sad, red rimmed. “But it’s always been more than that. You told me. You TOLD me, how you two were attached at the hip the very day you met. The DAY you met. That’s not a normal friendship, okay? That’s...I should have known. Well, I did. But he was fucking DEAD. I didn’t think I needed to worry about a dead man competing for you. Then he wasn’t dead. And here we are.”

“I just don’t...I never realized. Truly.” Even as I’m saying it, it sounds false. 

“Oh, John.” And she sounds sad for me, sorry for me, and I can’t bear how kind she’s being about this. I wish she would punch me, or kick me in the balls, or scream at me. “John, you had to’ve known. Somewhere, you had to’ve. Or you’re just really, desperately stupid.”

I can’t help but laugh at that, and she shoots me a sad smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“No. I’m fucking funny. Laugh away.” She lifts an eyebrow at me, and sips her wine. 

“I guess I did. I mean, I couldn’t bear...couldn’t think of Sherlock having...being with anyone else. But I never allowed myself...You know, I’m not actually gay. It’s just HIM. And that’s, odd. And hard to understand. So, I never really let myself think about it much.” I’m making no sense, and every time I say his name, her lips tighten. I’m really mucking this up, even worse than I already have. 

“John, just...don’t try to make it better, okay? Don’t try to explain. I’m basically being left at the fucking alter here. Just, I need some time. In the last day, I’ve gone from happy bride-to-be to thinking my fiance was dead, to realized he was just sleeping with his best friend while I was here terrified out of my mind, to realizing my life for the last 8 months and the life I thought I was going to have are just OVER. So, just.don’t.try.to.make.it.better. I know you like to comfort people, but you can’t comfort me right now. Just get whatever you need to get, and go back to him, and let me deal with this.” She’s angry now, as she should be, and I feel awful. 

“Mary, I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. 

“I know that. But I also know that there’s no going back. So just go.” She looks me dead in the eye, and I can see every emotion she’s feeling at the moment. And she doesn’t hate me. She’s too good. Too good to me, for me. “Look, I’m not going to hate you forever. I don’t hate you now, I’m just really, really fucking angry. We’ll be friends again, someday. I like you too much to not be. I even, I even like him. I do, I really do like him. And I look forward to a day when I can come over and have take away with you both in your flat, and watch telly, and play Cluedo...and it will be lovely. But right now, I kind of want to beat the shit out of both of you, so PLEASE. Just get your stuff, and GO.”

And I realize she’s being completely honest with me, which makes me feel both better and worse. I get up from the sofa, “Okay, Mary. I’ll go. I don’t want to hurt you today any more than I’ve done already. You’re too good.”

“I’m not, I’m really not. If you could hear the thoughts in my head right now, John Watson…” She walks away from me, into the kitchen. “I’ll be in here until you’ve gone.”

I let her go. In our bedroom, I’m gathering clothes and stuffing them as quickly as I can into a duffel when my phone buzzes. 

How is it going? SH

About as well as could be expected. JW

Home soon? SH

Yes. I may need a few pints tonight. Feeling like a complete dickhead. JW

Angelo’s? SH

You mean, like a date? JW  
A date. SH

Can I hold your hand under the table? JW

No. SH

Fine. I’ll go anyway. JW

Good. See you soon. SH

I laugh, putting my phone back in my pocket, because everything is just the same as it’s always been, and utterly, ridiculously different. I finish stuffing as much clothing as I can in my duffel, throw some jackets over my arm, grab some toiletries from the loo, and take a last look at the bedroom I’ve shared with Mary for the last 6 months. It seems like a dream now, like something that didn’t actually happen. 

I think for a moment about going into the kitchen to talk to her a bit more, but no. She really doesn’t want to see me, and besides...

I need to get home to Sherlock.


	4. Mary's Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After HLV, I had to incorporate it into this fic, but FIX IT. This is the beginning of me fixing it.

I’m looking at Sherlock over two lit candles in the middle of the table at Angelo’s, and we’re both trying very hard not to laugh. I’m pretty deep into a bottle of wine, trying to drown my guilt and doing a pretty good job. 

“This is…” I stammer out, waving my hand at the candlelit table, complete with flowers in a vase, laughter finally escaping me.

“Not us.” Finishes Sherlock, eyebrow raised at me. The candlelight flickers across all the hollows and dips and angles of his face, highlighting the imperfections as well - the creases, the beginnings of wrinkles, the laugh lines. Mine. All mine, every blemish, every wrinkle, every perfect curve of cheekbone. I’ve finally gotten every part of him, and it feels...I can’t even find the words.

I blow the candles out and put them to the side of the table. “Spot on. I don’t think we’re made for romantic candlelit dinners, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leans forward, his eyes all black and glimmering in the low light, “No, John. I think we’re more made for dead bodies, chasing criminals through London, and shagging in the shower, you saying all kind of wonderfully filthy things to me while I wank off.” He winks at me, gives me that quick half smile he does, and sits back. 

I have to suppress the hard shiver that runs through me. Breath deep, John, calm down. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. We’ve not even eaten yet.”

“Who cares? Food is BORING. Come ON, John. Let’s go home.” The look Sherlock is giving me makes me want to knock the table out of the way and throw him on the floor. But I really am hungry, and I need more wine to completely forget about the Mary situation. I was supposed to be getting married tomorrow. 

“Sherlock. I’m supposed to be getting married tomorrow. I’m a little...I don’t know, sad, I guess. And guilty.” I glug down the last of my glass, pour another one, and take a sip. “I can’t help wondering what Mary must be doing right now while we’re out having a date.”

Sherlock looks perplexed, and a little irritated. He looks like there's a lot he wants to say, but he's holding back. The bridge of his nose pinches together, and he looks down at his hands in his lap, “But you chose me. She's...unimportant.”

“Well, yes, but you just don’t STOP having feelings for someone, like that. Like a switch. It doesn’t work that way, Sherlock.” And his Sherlock-y-ness is showing. He’s no idea the conflicting emotions I’m going through right now. Shit, I’VE no idea what I’m feeling right now. 

“Are you going to...to change your mind? Is that a possibility? That you might not want me?” Sherlock’s eyes have gone from hungry and sultry to scared and childlike in seconds. My heart contracts in my chest.

“No! God, no, Sherlock. This - you and me - this is everything. This is the rest of my life, right here. No, I’m not changing my mind.” I have to touch him, have to reassure him that he’s what I want. I reach across the table and put my hand under his, palms together, my fingertips on the inside of his wrist. “I love you. And you’re right, I CHOSE you. But, you have to understand that this is going to be messy. It’s not going to be simple.”

“I know that. Alright, John. I just...want you to feel you made the right decision.” Christ, the sadness in his voice is killing me. 

“I made the right decision, Sherlock. There’s no one else for me. Don’t you dare doubt that.” I point at him, as I often do when I’m trying to make him listen to me. He looks at my pointed finger and slowly smiles, the sadness in his eyes drifting away. “Don’t you forget that I killed a man for you after we’d known each other less than a week.”

He laughs, head thrown back. Christ, look at that neck. I love every freckle. Then his eyes shift again, going predatory and deep. He grabs my outstretched hand, pulls it to his face, and suddenly my fingers are in Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue twisting around them, licking with the tip every ridge and crease. And the want for him is like a white hot light flooding my stomach and my groin. I feel like I actually can’t see for a moment. He lets my fingers out of his mouth with a pop, “Then take me home and show me.”

 

***

Twenty minutes later, we’re sprawled together, all tangled limbs and mussed hair, in Sherlock’s chair by the fireplace, my side against his chest, our legs crossed over each other. Run my hand down Sherlock’s arm, all sinewy muscles and knobs of bone at the wrists, and twist our fingers together, put our entwined fist up to my mouth, kiss each one of his knuckles, keeping our eyes locked together as I do so. We’re slow and steady tonight. No frenetic shedding of clothes, or pushing up against doors. This is about knowing this isn’t going to end, this isn’t just tonight, and we can take our time. We want to take our time. Want to fuse together like hot metal. Like people that couldn’t be separated without their skin peeling away. God, these thoughts I have now. I feel like Sherlock is thinking inside my head half the time, and I’m okay with it. Every day that we are actually together, this way, the way we couldn’t be before, it gets more intense, darker, stranger. And better. 

Sherlock pulls me closer to him by my shirt, hand on my cheek, twists my head down, puts his lips to mine. Soft skin, warm, tastes like wine. He smells like cloves and allspice and smoke. If I was dying, this is the last memory I would want - the smell of him, the sound of him breathing, the colour of his skin. I feel like we could consume each other if we aren’t careful. But we’ve been careful for five years, and I’ve no more patience for that. I don’t really mind anymore if we consume each other, like a fire, like something burning away slow and long and painfully. Loving Sherlock has always been painful, and hard. Now it’s more painful, exquisitely so, gorgeously so. I can’t bear to be away from him, it’s a physical ache. Slowly, with the lightest touch of my fingertips, I trace the outline of his ear, over and over. He’s shivering, eyes just barely open, slivers of golden green and white just visible between dark, thick lashes, nuzzling his ear into my fingers. 

Lips together, tongues touching, tasting each other. God, I love the feel of his mouth. It’s soft but never actually gentle, always assertive, affirming with every kiss that I am his, his. It’s like he’s tattooing my skin with his lips, writing his name all over my body. It’s intoxicating. It’s moving slowly down, my jawline, under my jaw, tongue into my neck. Then Sherlock’s fingers are at my shirt buttons, slowly pushing them open, one by one, and my blood is pumping a little faster. I shift in the chair, so I’m facing him a bit more, chests pressed together. I slide one arm around his ribcage, pull us as close as I can get. 

“I love you so much. You’ve no idea.” Kiss his lips, his jaw, feel the smooth muscle tightening beneath his skin, mouth on his neck, feeling the gooseflesh rise up between my lips. 

His hand on my face, thumb slowly rubbing over my lips. He’s watching his thumb with a curious expression, as if he’s not sure why he’s doing it, or why he likes it. It makes me smile, his thumb still pressed to my mouth. Grey green eyes flick up to meet mine, soft, filled with affection, golden flecked and sparkling. And then I can feel his nose up against mine, the end a little cold, and my eyes close as our lips touch, and I feel like I could do this for days, just watch each other and kiss. I don’t need anything else. Just us, tangled in this chair, breathing each other’s air, memorizing each pore and hair and sound the other makes. John&Sherlock. One person.

We’re so entranced with each other, we don’t even immediately realize when the door from the hall to the kitchen has clicked open, and there’s someone standing in the shadows. But suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, and not in a good way. I take my mouth off of Sherlock’s, and move my head almost imperceptibly backwards. Sherlock shakes his head at me. Don’t move, John, it says. I freeze, realizing Sherlock’s eyes are now focused behind me and they’ve gone from starlight and sex to cold granite in about 2 seconds flat.

“Oh, hello there, Mary. Why don’t you step into the light?” Sherlock’s voice has taken on the velvety dangerous quality I associate with him being about ready to point a gun at someone.

“Mary? What…?” Stunned out of my frozen position, I twist, leap off of Sherlock’s lap to standing.

And she emerges from the kitchen, lips pouted, eyes looking at me pityingly, and in her outstretched arm, a revolver, “Hullo, darling. Isn’t this a cosy scene? The boys of Baker Street, back together again, only...much more *together* than before, I think, yeah?” Her voice is mocking, unpleasant. I’ve never heard her talk like that. I feel kind of nauseous, I’ve lost my voice. 

Finally, I’m able to stutter out, “What on earth are you...I mean, I knew you were angry with me, but...What are you doing, Mary?”

She shakes her head, clucks her tongue at me, “Oh, John. You didn’t really think I would marry someone I’d known for 8 months, did you? No, darling boy, this isn’t about you at all. It never was. I’m here for Sherlock.”

I try to swallow past the enormous lump of anxiety and confusion in my throat. “Here for...Sherlock? What? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you never do, John. You’re tiresome like that.” Mary waves her gun at me. “Shut up and listen, and maybe you’ll gain some clarity.”

I do as she says and shut up, brain desperately trying to process what is happening here. Sherlock looks completely unsurprised, and completely calm. As usual. He’s slowly rebuttoning his shirt, as if that’s the most normal thing in the world. “Well, go on, Mary. Tell John what you and I already know.”

She smiles, and the sight of it makes my skin crawl. I can’t imagine now why I ever loved her for even a moment. She looks completely repellent. 

“John. My name is not Mary Morstan. My name is Sybill Moran, and I believe you’ve met my employer.” She doesn’t elaborate. “And I’m here to kill Sherlock Holmes.”


	5. Lies, Nothing But Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone lies to John. He's finally had enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was HEAVILY influenced by the events of His Last Vow, though spun the way I would have liked it to have gone down. But hot, angry John was probably much more of an influence than he should have been. ; )
> 
> Added a bit today, fleshed it out a little. 1/15/14
> 
> Okay, changed the sex scene a bit, added more talkyness at the end. I can't stop fussing with this one. I want it to be perfect. 2/17/2014

I feel like I’m going to be physically ill. I’ve absolutely NO FUCKING CLUE what is happening, and of course, as usual, I am the only one in the room who feels that way. Besides which, my ex-fiance is holding a gun on Sherlock, and she could decide to shoot at any second. I try to take a deep breath, feel like I can’t get enough air.

“How long have you known, Sherlock?” Mary - Sybill - perches on the edge of the coffee table, looking at Sherlock like he’s a very interesting animal in a cage. She’s suddenly very clinical, all the warmth that I’d grown to know is completely, utterly gone. It’s dawning on me I have never had any idea who this woman was.

Why does everyone in my life lie to me all the time? Jesus Christ.

Sherlock purses his lips, fingers templed together in front of his mouth. “Oh, since before I came back, certainly I had an idea that you weren’t what you seemed. I had Mycroft do some digging while I was away. He fairly easily discovered your real name and your connection to Moriarty.”

I feel like someone just punched me in the stomach. “Moriarty?” I gasp out, barely able to talk.

Mary doesn’t even look my way, “Shut up, John.”

She waves her gun at me, “Sit in your armchair, old man.” I do, sinking into my chair with a thud, mostly because I’m so fucking shocked, I can no longer stand.

Sherlock swallows, eyes still calm, almost bored, and fixed on Mary. “I do wish you wouldn’t insult John. It makes me...angry.”

She laughs, and it’s so icy cold, it sends a shiver right down the back of my neck. “I could shoot you now, Sherlock. I don’t have to be letting you talk, you know.”

Sherlock’s face has become as stony as his eyes, all grey and angled, absorbing the light in the room. He is frighteningly calm. I’m trying to figure out how I can get to my gun, in the bedroom behind me, how I can get past Mary without her shooting Sherlock. Or how I can take her down and get her gun, which I certainly am capable of doing, but again, how do I do that without her pulling the trigger first?

 

“Oh, you won’t shoot me, Mary. Not yet. You want to know how I sorted it out. Just like him, you know. Too curious for your own good.” Sherlock’s voice is so deadly polite, it’s terrifying. It’s all knife points slid out of shirt cuffs, and poisoned wine - everything lethal and dangerous and silent.

She tilts her head to the side. “True. And like you, too.”

Sherlock’s mouth perks into that half smile, his eyes still stone, jagged, cutting stone. “I’ll accede that’s true. I do hate to not know...well, anything.”

“So. I’ll ask again, how long have you known? What do you know?”

I’m breathing through my nose, hard, trying to steady the twittering in my chest that’s making my whole body tremble. You’re a fucking soldier, John Watson. Get your shit together! But Mary...my Mary...GET.YOUR.SHIT.TOGETHER.JOHN. Okay, okay, I can do this. Mary’s stood up now, gun pointed down at Sherlock still in his chair. She’s several steps to my right and in front of me about 12 inches. I could certainly get to her and knock her to the floor, wrestle the gun away. Sherlock suddenly shoots me a look that clearly says, “Do not fucking move, John.” I realize my muscles were already tensing, ready to jump out of my chair. I’m all wires and nerves and minefields right now.

“Well, I’ve known about Moriarty, and your name, like I said, from the very beginning, before I’d even returned to London. And very soon after, some other interesting...facts...came to light, about your - shall we say - freelancing. You’re a ‘consulting criminal, just like your..ah...boss. And even trying on the government for size for a while - they do SO need good marksmen - though, in truth, Mycroft was in on that, allowed that to proceed, with my suggestion. You’re not boring, certainly. Sybill.” Sherlock’s tapping his finger on the side of his chair, trying to tell me something. It’s code. It’s Morse code. Concentrate, John. Calm yourself the FUCK down, and concentrate. This is easy. What is he telling you?

“Well, no, I’m really not.” She smiles at him, and it’s clear it’s meant to be sultry. “I had to pretend to be, all these months with Mr. Porridge over there. And it was TEDIOUS.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to Mary’s face, angry now, flashing. The muscle in his jaw is twitching. “John is NOT boring. You’re clearly not that intelligent, though, if after 8 months with him, you couldn’t see him for what he is. I figured it out in about 30 seconds.”

Fingers still tapping. I can’t concentrate. My head is buzzing. There are too many things happening at once in my mind. I have to find a way to focus, before Mary figures out that Sherlock’s sending me a message.

Mary rolls her eyes. “Tedious. Faking the loving partner, the sweet nurse, the girl who loves a pub night and greasy chips and crap telly and being pawed at by a clumsy arse who comes in five minutes.”

Sherlock’s nostrils are flaring. Fingers tapping calmly as ever. But his eyes are coals, burning, scorching, furious. “I told you. I told you not to insult John.”

“I could just kill you now.” She cocks her gun. Sherlock doesn’t flinch.

“Go ahead, then. I’m tired of talking to you anyway. You’re rude, rude to John, and I don’t like that. And you’re stupid. So go ahead. You’re BORING me.” Sherlock looks her dead in the eye.

She’s going to shoot him. She’s going to shoot Sherlock. My ears are buzzing, my muscles are detaching from my bones. I can’t think. I can’t FUCKING THINK. Fingers tapping. Tapping, a rhythm, over and over.

And in that split second, I hear it. “Reach down” he’s been saying. Reach. Down.

I shove my hand between the pillow and the side of my chair, and feel the cold hard handle of my Sig. He knew this was going to happen. He knew, that fucker. That absolute sodding arsehole. I’ll deal with him later. Because I’ll be able to, because he won’t be dead. I jump to standing, my arm stretched out, gun at the end, as natural and as normal as I ever feel. This is me. This is who I am.

“Drop it.” Mary turns before I speak, at the sound of the gun cocking. We stare at each other.

“Aw, sweetheart. You don’t have it in you.” Her eyes, the eyes I used to look into before I went to sleep at night. They’re a stranger’s eyes. I’ve no feeling left in me at all for this woman.

“Fucking try me.” I take a step towards her.

She shoots. Towards Sherlock’s chair. Without thinking, drop my arm, leap in front of him. The bullet goes no where near us. It was a ploy. She’s halfway down the steps, and Sherlock’s pushing me on the floor, trying to run after her, but she’s gone, gone. The front door to Baker Street hanging open, and she’s off into the night.

She knew I'd kill her without flinching if she shot him. So she fled, waiting for a moment when I don't have a gun pointed at her chest.

“Damn!” Sherlock slams his hand on the bannister. Momentarily angry. He takes a breath, smoothes his hair back off his forehead. “Ah, well. Another day, then.”

He strides into the flat, smiling. His eyebrow lifts at me. “The game is on, John.”

I’m still on the floor in front of Sherlock’s chair. I’m aware of a persistent humming in my chest. Oh. It’s anger. Blinding, white, rage. That’s what that is.

“No. No. The game is not fucking ON, Sherlock.” I stand up, and stride toward where he’s come to stand in the middle of the sitting room. Push him against the door, hard, and not in a sexy way. My forearm across his throat. “You KNEW? You bloody KNEW? And you didn’t think to tell me that my fiance was working for Moriarty? That Moriarty was ALIVE? That she was a complete FAKE? You would have let me marry her, wouldn’t you have? You would have let me MARRY that complete psychopath. What the fuck, Sherlock?”

I’m not even shouting. I’m so angry I can’t raise my voice above a rasp. My eyelid is twitching.

“John.” He croaks out. I’m crushing his windpipe. Ok, John, you don’t want to kill him. Well, I do a bit. But you won’t later. Right, true. I lift my arm off a little bit.

“What? What can you POSSIBLY say to me right now that would make me less bloody angry with you?” I am fighting a deep urge to knee him in the balls, drop him to the floor, and just punch him until my biceps ache.

“Absolutely nothing, I imagine. But I can explain, give you the chance to understand why I did what I did. Please.” Sherlock never says please. Well, unless we’re...but that’s CERTAINLY not happening tonight…and the please finally gets me feeling slightly less murderous.

“Fine.” I let my arm off his throat, step back. He yanks his collar straight, smooths his clothes. Looks at me, eyes green and bright and apologetic. ‘Well, go ahead. Explain to me. Explain to me how this was all a ruse. God, how you have lied to me, Sherlock. I don’t know how or why I keep forgiving it. Do you EVER tell me the truth? Ever?”

‘When I told you I loved you. That was the truth, John.” He swallows, looks up at me from under a mop of curls. Eyes welling up, red-rimmed. Christ.“When I told you I’d wanted you all this time, and that I never thought you felt the same way. That...that was all the truth.”

I laugh, arms crossed over my chest. “You trying to make me feel bad for you now, is that it? While I was introducing the two of you, taking us all out to dinner, while I was sleeping in bed with a bloody ASSASSIN every night - she could have murdered me in my sleep, thanks very much - and then, you and me happened, and I broke it off, and I was having CRUSHING, fucking crushing, guilt about what I’d done to Mary, and the whole time, THE.WHOLE.TIME., you bloody knew. You fucking bastard.”

“John, I...I had no idea what happened the other night was going to happen. Truly. I - that wasn't part of the plan. That just...that was just us, being us." He looks distraught, even paler than usual, eyes red rimmed, mouth trembling.

My anger isn't ebbing. I'm so sick and tired of this, of being the patsy, the idiot, the one who doesn't get what's happening. I'm a bloody doctor, and a soldier. I'm smart and I'm capable, and I'm so tired of being treated like I should be sitting at the kids' table. "Go on."

"I...the plan was to let you marry her, and then let her get close to me. Eventually, she'd see her opportunity, and then Mycroft and I…”

“Oh! It’s ALWAYS fucking Mycroft. Every.bloody.time. The next time I see your brother, I am going punch him so hard in the bollocks they’re going to come out his fucking nose.” I’m pacing the room now, my hands on my hips. I’m nothing but gritted teeth and dry eyes, flushed and furious.

“No, just...just listen to me. Please.” Sherlock’s hand outstretched, pleading with me. I close my eyes. I just can’t even look at him right now. “The plan was to let her try to kill me, but we'd catch her in the act, like tonight. Though that didn't go exactly as I'd hoped, but nonetheless...And then, and then we’d have her, and we’d have a link to Moriarty, and Mycroft could interrogate her. If we’d told you, John, if we’d told you, and you hadn’t let her get close to you, and to me, she would have run. And we would have lost our only solid link to Moriarty.”

“So, you used me. Again. Lovely. Brilliant. I’m always your FUCKING PAWN, is that is, eh? Use John, he’s dumb, he’s pliable. You know, I could have gone along with the plan. I could have been TOLD. I could have been trusted, Sherlock. Instead, you used me.”

“No, SHE was using you. She started this whole game in motion…we just...took advantage.” Sherlock winces at how ugly that sounds. He knows. He knows he completely fucked me over.

“It wasn’t a GAME, Sherlock. It was my LIFE. And you BOTH used me. Fuck all of you.”

We’re completely silent. I can’t even look at him right now. I walk to the window, look down at the street. I hear the door click shut behind me, the locks going into place. Suddenly Sherlock is right behind me, his hands slipping under my shirt.

“What the FUCK are you doing? You think we’ll shag, and I’ll stop being angry? That’s not how it works, Sherlock.” I try to whip around, fling his hands off me, but he can be very strong when he wants to be, and his arms are over top of my arms, holding me still.

His lips are at my hairline, “Then use me, John. I used you. Use me. Take out all your anger on me. I deserve it. I want it.”

“I’m not getting less angry here, Sherlock.” And I’m really not. I’m fucking furious. But unbelievably, my neck is starting to prickle and the heat is gathering in my spine. It’s red hot. It’s wrath. I could tear him apart with my bare hands right now, I think.

“I know.” He’s pressed up against me now, rubbing his face behind my ear, breath hot and moist on my skin. “Be angry with me. Wreck me. Hurt me.”

I whip around finally, grab his face in my hand, hard, tightening my fingers, feeling his veins roll as I squeeze. He looks shocked. “Yeah? Is that what you like? You like to be hurt? Well, I’m not that kind of guy. Sorry.”

And I’m generally NOT that kind of guy. But suddenly, against all reason at that moment, I am.

All my fury comes out in a rush. I'm more instinct than anything else. Baker Street feels like a battlefield right now, nothing but explosions and pain. And then I'm pushing him roughly over the kitchen table, on his stomach. Knock a few of his vials and jars to the floor, where they shatter. I did that on purpose. Hand to the back of his head, pushing, pressing his face down. Snap my hips to his arse, lean over his back, “Is this what you want me to do? You want me to be rough, be mean, hurt you because you deserve it?”

He nods, his pale skin flushed, mottled. He’s really, really turned on by this. Which turns me on like I’ve never been in my life. Biting the inside of my lip bloody, my jaw clenched, muscle jumping, and I am rock hard. God, what the fuck is wrong with me? Too late to stop. We both want this now. I'll have time to regret it later.

"I need to hear you SAY it, Sherlock. Say it."

"I want you to. I want you to hurt me. Please. I want it so bad, just please, please, John."

I let him up slightly, just enough for him to get his hands to his trouser button. “Then get your fucking trousers down.”

He complies, quickly. Pushes back into me. I get mine down enough, push a hand to his back. “Fucking stay down.”

He gasps, closes his eyes, rocks backward. He REALLY likes this. Being talked to like this, held down. It’s a good thing I’m so bloody angry, or I might be a little bothered. I’ll probably be bothered later. But not now. Now, I want to pound into him, hold him down, put welts on him, make him cry with pain and pleasure both.

I lick my fingers. I don’t want to hurt myself, after all. Well, not much. I'm pretty angry with myself at the moment, too, for always letting people get the better of me.

Pressing him hard into the table, I put my fingers in him, hard. He gasps, bucks up, back tensing and bending under my hand. Hand in the middle of his shoulder blades, shoving him flat.

“Okay, John, okay. I’m sorry.” He’s breathless, panting, cheeks red and lips already swollen, arms hung limp over the table, which is rocking rather disturbingly.

“You’re goddamned right you are.” Working my fingers, deep, twisting. He's panting and writhing and can't stay still for even a second, and I'm mashing him into the table with my other hand. I bend down, lips at his ear, and slip my hand to his cock, under the table, squeeze, making him jerk forward and moan. “You will not lie to me anymore. I’m done, goddamn it. You hear me? I’m not your fucking pawn, and I’m not stupid. I'm your partner and your fucking best friend, and I don't deserve to be treated like this. You've lied to me enough for two lifetimes. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. You hear me?”

“I know, I know. I won’t lie to you anymore. I swear.” He can barely talk. His eyes are screwed shut, curls across his cheekbone. Even now, I find him the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Even though I want to fuck him raw, he’s still breathtaking to me. God, we are pretty fucked up right now. I'm just starting to realize how dangerous we can be together. And have always been. The chemistry between us is explosive.

“No you won’t. Or I’m done. I will leave, and you’ll never see me again. I mean it.” And I do. In that moment, I really do. I’m so sick of this shit. I'm so tired.

Fingers out, hands gripping his hips, I push in. He groans, moving forward a little, wrapping one hand around himself and starting to pull.

I reach down and grab his arm, put it back on the table. "Oh, no you don't. You're going to come just from me inside you. You're going to come just from me fucking you."

"Oh, god, John. Yes, I will. Oh, make me come. Please." He's panting so hard he can barely breathe, barely talk. His beautiful back glistening with perspiration, the curve at the top of his arse hollowed and taut. I bend over and put my lips to his back, and he moans, curling up into me.

Murmuring against his skin, "Yeah, I'm going to make you come harder than you ever have, Sherlock. I'm going to fucking wreck you...But not yet."

I dig my fingertips into his hips as hard as I can, scratching across the soft skin stretched right over the bone, and yank him backwards. Beakers crashing over, shattering glass and chemicals across the floor. I grab at his hair with one hand, pull his head back. His eyes are wide open now, black and glimmering and full of pain and joy and passion and I’m thrusting into him hard, deeper than we’ve done before, and I’m biting my lip, tasting my own blood and...Oh god, this is fucking transcendent.

“Say you’re sorry.” Thrust hard, yank on his hair. Him clutching the table, white knuckled, mouth open, whimpering a little. White hot explosions in my skull, behind my eyes, brain on fire.

“I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry.” He sounds like he’s almost crying now.

I rake my fingers down his back, nails digging in hard, raising welts. He arches, back going concave, keening like a bloody cat. Oh god, this is incredible. This is getting high, this is flaying your own skin off to see if it hurts, this is tattoo needles dragging across your skin in all the right places, this is feet pounding on pavement, adrenaline and gunshots and danger. This is addiction. I’m addicted to him. I've always been. And he to me. And it will never stop.

This is who we are. It will be soft and gorgeous sometimes, all warm lips and tea in the kitchen and kissing and bony feet in my lap at the end of the day and it will feel normal. And then sometimes it will be infuriating and horrible, like when he disappears for days or won't let me know what he's thinking, and sometimes it will be this, this beautiful pain right here, making each other hurt because no one else could ever to do us what we do to each other. Because no matter what, we've never been able to stay away from each other. Sherlock&John. One person.

“Say you want it harder.” I’m close, so close. It’s crawling up my spine now, the shudder, the shaking.

“Harder, John. Harder. Please.” He’s shaking now, but in a good way. I can see his skin quivering, his forehead pressed into the table. He's close, too.

“Yeah? Like this? You can come now...let it go, baby.” I am as deep as I can go, ramming into him so hard it almost hurts. I let go of his hair, slide my hands up and down his back more gently. My anger is subsiding a bit, and I do love him so goddamned much. I slow down just a little, swinging my hips in a small circle.

“Yes, yes, oh god, John…” He reaches back with one arm to touch my hip, and that’s it. His fingers touch my skin and we’re both gone, cascades of cursing and gasping and quivering, my hands clutching at his waist, and the table is shaking horribly, and there’s glass breaking, and it’s like a fucking apocalypse.

We stay there, me still inside him, for a long moment when it’s over. Finally, I push myself up, and pull up my jeans. I feel spent, in every way. He’s still prostrate across the table, all gorgeous long limbs askew and bruised, sweaty, welted skin, sweet swollen lips like cherries, no, not cherries, like blood, more like blood. I love him so much, and we can hurt each other so much, and we can bring each other to the heights of joy. It's insanity. And it's only been 3 days. Well, about 5 years and 3 days.

It's always been this, this addiction to each other. It swells and subsides, like the tide going in and out, but it's unstoppable and inevitable.

He’s looking at me now with expectation in his eyes.

“I’m still angry.” I say, jaw set tight.

He looks like he’s going to cry. Those beautiful eyes, golden and blue in the darkness of the flat, rimmed with red, tearful. Shit. I'm supposed to take care of him. I'm supposed to protect him. I've completely failed him. I pinch my lips together, feel most of my anger drain, leaving me feeling weak and guilty. I’ve punished him, and myself, enough for the day. And I’m fucking exhausted.

“Will she be back tonight, Sherlock?” I'm surprised at how my voice shakes.

“No. No. She’s...I don’t think we’ll see her for a while.”

“Good. Then come to bed with me. Please. I’m so exhausted, and so...just unhinged. I don't even feel like myself. And I want to hold you and rub your back, and feel your head on my chest, and just forget this. All of it. I just can't, right now. Okay? Can we do that, for a few hours? Just be normal? Can we manage just a few hours of normality? And we’ll deal with all of this - my assassin ex, your lying, the broken glass in the kitchen - tomorrow.” I feel nauseous, I’m so tired. So emotionally fucked.

Sherlock finally rises off the table. Buttons his trousers. Becomes Sherlock again. “Yes, John, let’s.”

A few minutes later, in our darkened room, we’re pressed up against each other, his ear to my heart, my hand languidly rubbing his back, feeling the welts I put there. I have a pang of guilt.

I put my lips in his hair. I have to say something. "I'm sorry, baby. I shouldn't have...did I hurt you?"

"No. It's fine." He turns his head and kisses my chest. "Go to sleep."

"Are you sure?" I'm so bloody tired, but I don't want to go to sleep like this. Then I get a jolt of panic that has nothing to do with me and Sherlock, and everything to do with Mary. I bolt up. "Where's my gun? Fuck, it's still in the sitting room. I have to go get it."

I avoid looking at the broken glass and the crooked table in the kitchen, feeling ashamed. My gun is on the table next to my chair. I grab it, double check that it's loaded, and tuck it under my pillow carefully, before laying back down and opening my arms to Sherlock. He rolls over, arm across my stomach, and looks up at me, all big eyes and mussed curls. Fuck, I love him so much. It's crushing sometimes.

"Better now, John?"

"Yeah, baby, let's go to sleep." I've no idea where 'baby' is coming from, but it's just slipping out naturally, and Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. It gives me a little thrill of happiness to call him that. It's like claiming him. Mine.

He wriggles closer, every angle and curve of our bodies locking together, fitting perfectly in place. Two halves of a whole, we are.

“Sherlock&John.” I mumble, drifting off.

‘What did you say?” Sherlock raises his head to look at me.

“I said, Sherlock&John. One person. That’s how I always think of us, one word, one name.” I laugh a little. “That’s weird, innit?”

He presses another kiss to my bare chest, and tightens his arm around my waist, holding me as close as he can. “No, John. That’s not weird at all. It’s lovely.”


	6. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs to heal after the events of the day before. A bit PWP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this chapter took me FOREVER. I'd love feedback, because I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. Thanks!!!
> 
> I'm still editing, bit by bit...

“Cream?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“No, thank you, I’ve already done.” I say just as quietly, rustling the newspaper, hiding behind it. 

We fall silent. It’s been a strange morning. We’re all nerves and shyness around each other suddenly, behind a veil of incredible politeness. I actually got up before Sherlock for once, showering and dressing and escaping the bedroom to make coffee. I’m fairly sure he was awake, but he let me alone until I was safely in the sitting room with my coffee and toast. Only then did I hear him go into the shower.

Mycroft’s already been by. I thought I would want to strangle him, but I found myself oddly relieved to tell him what happened. Somehow, knowing the British Government is backing you up does tend to give one a sense of security. It helped that Mycroft was as apologetic as Mycroft is capable of being, and that Sherlock told him in no uncertain terms that I was to be part of any plans from here on out. That did help. 

After that was a trip with Mycroft to MI6, where plans were set in motion to track Mary - I just can’t think of her as Sybill - using some of her “friends” in London. Sherlock and I will be in on every development, and Baker Street is being watched round the clock. There’s not much else for us to do now, except wait on Mycroft to let us know what our role will be, once Mary’s been found.

Now we’re sitting in our chairs, trying to have tea and act normal. It’s not working. 

Finally I lower my paper into my lap. “Sherlock. Let’s talk about last night.”

He’s sideways in his chair, long legs thrown over one arm, laptop across his knees, researching. I see Moriarty’s name flashing by as he shuts the laptop. He turns to me. His face is bruised from where I put him into the table. Not much, probably no one else would see it, but to me, it’s as bright as sunlight, and much more painful to look at. 

“I thought we already had. There’s not much more we can do at the moment, except be prepared and wait. I’ll find a way to track her, but I need time. Time to think.” He seems relaxed enough, but he’s being careful with me. He knows I’m not altogether right now.

“Not that. Not...Sybill. I can’t talk about that yet, it’s all just so fucked up. I can’t...no, not her. Us. Me and you. What happened with us.” I’m overcome by the need to touch him, to mend this thing that I feel broke between us. I know that part of us - the dark, dangerous, unpredictable part of us - is a lot of what bonds us. But it’s as if it’s pushing us away from each other right now, and I can’t bear it. 

“Okay.” He temples his hands together and looks at me. I kneel down on the floor between us, like I did just four short days ago. God, I feel like the earth has tilted on its axis since Friday night. I’ve gone from being ready to marry Mary, and settle in to a ‘normal” suburban life, to shagging my best friend and leaving my fiance, which was fucking weird enough, to discovering my fiance is actually a psychopathic killer associate of Moriarty. My synapses are on overload. I can’t even process all that’s happened. 

I move his laptop to the floor, part his knees, slide my arms around his waist, and bury my face in his lap. Warm wool, a bit scratchy, a bit soft, smells like Sherlock, all spice and smoke and London taxicabs. Even in the bleeding summertime, he wears wool trousers. Sherlock Holmes, the man who won’t even bend to the changing of the seasons. But he bent to me last night, submitted to my anger, let me hurt him, and it’s hurting me now. 

His hands come to rest on the back of my head, kneading gently.

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry I hurt you last night. That...that’s not me, I’m not...I was just so angry. So confused, and angry, and I had no bloody idea what was happening - I’m still angry at you, by the way, just so you know - and then you seemed to want me to be like that - not that it’s your fault - and…” I’m rambling, I realize, but I desperately need him to know I’m sorry I’ve hurt him. And I AM still angry, but I’m always angry at Sherlock for something. And I’ve never tried to hurt him before. I’ve always been the one to protect him.

“John. It’s ok. I *asked* you to. Besides, that’s hardly the worst I’ve…” He stops, and I can hear him swallowing, reconsidering telling me something. I decide to let it go for now. He’ll tell me later. “I *did* want that. Do you hear me, John? I wanted that. It was enjoyable, and I liked it. I liked it very much. I wouldn’t want that every time, but you needed that from me in that moment, and I wanted to give it to you. And I enjoyed giving it.”

“I bruised your face.’ I mumble into the wool of his trousers, unable to look up at him. 

He’s stroking the back of my head now, soothingly. “It’s okay. Bruises heal.”

“I hurt you.” I raise my head, look into those golden green eyes, brimming with warmth and affection right now. 

“I hurt *you*. I lied to you. Repeatedly and consistently. You had every right to be angry with me, John. I *wanted* you to do what we did. It’s truly alright.” He’s smiling at me now, softly, sweetly, a look I’ve very rarely seen on his face. A rush of emotion sweeps over me so forcefully, I feel light headed. Sherlock can shatter me with a smile, break my heart with an eyebrow raise. He’s always been able to bring emotions forth in me that no one’s ever done before. I lay my head on his stomach, feeling him breathing, the thudding of his blood pumping. 

“I don’t...I just...I don’t feel like I’m like that.” Teeth in my upper lip, fists clenching and unclenching. I am nothing but tension, a tight spring, ready to pop.

A touch of...what...pity?...has crept into Sherlock’s voice. “John, you absolutely *are* like that. Both you and I know that, so let’s not be ridiculous. You are very much like that. You have a rage buried within you that is truly terrifying to behold, and it’s part of what made me fall in love with you. It’s fairly dead sexy, truthfully. It’s why you, ONLY you, and not anyone else I’ve ever known, truly understands and accepts me. You never try to make me something I’m not, John, because you understand the dark places, of which I have many. Don’t be afraid of your darkness, John. If you were nothing but light, you wouldn’t be John. And I wouldn’t love you.”

I think about that for a moment, and he’s spot on. I know it. There’s a lot of darkness in me, though people don’t generally see it, because I’m good at hiding it. I’ve spent my life trying to coil that rage into something I can control. It’s why I was a good soldier, and why I always feel right with a gun at the end of my arm. It’s all my rage funneled, into something precise and concrete. It’s why I’m sarcastic, and why I don’t hesitate when there’s danger. It’s why Sherlock and I fit together so gorgeously, because I can be totally myself, anger and all, with him. It’s also why I get into screaming rows with chip and pin machines.

But I don’t want to unleash that rage *on* Sherlock. Well, mostly. 

“You’re right, you are. I do feel the most natural with a gun in my hand. Or working cases. With you.”

Sherlock nods, all raised eyebrows and knowing smile. “I know. I know who you are, John Watson. I knew the moment we met. Why do you think I chose you, that day at Bart's?”

The memory of that day makes me smile sadly; everything seemed so much simpler then. “I’m just so worn out right now. I don’t even feel like I know who I am right now, with everything that’s happened…I just feel...I don’t know. Adrift.”

Sherlock laughs, “It has been quite the weekend, hasn’t it?”

“Can we just? I just want...” And I’m kissing him suddenly, don’t even know how it happened, those soft lips on my chapped ones, one long hand cradling the back of my head, and I’m crawling up into his lap, just like the first time. Curling into him, my nose in his neck, my fists against his chest. I feel completely beaten down by last night. By the revelations about Mary, by not being able to control my anger, by what happened between me and Sherlock. I feel drowsy suddenly, like my brain is just shutting down, shutting it all out. 

I need peace. I need to quiet all the noises in my mind. I feel like my brain is in pieces. I’ve been going over and over my relationship with Mary all day. I can’t stop trying to see how I missed the signs of something so vile and insidious in her. How I could have been so blind. I need to lose myself, forget all of this. I want oblivion. 

Sherlock runs one hand up my thigh and my side, long fingers up under my shirt, playing on my skin just under the hem. He’s looking at me so intently, his eyes grey, gold, hazel, every colour I’ve ever thought was beautiful. Hands at the small of my back now, his thumbs rubbing over the base of my spine, making me shiver and arch, back muscles contracting. 

“You don’t have to apologize, John. We don’t have to have sex as an apology. Have you never done anything like that before with someone?” 

“Not...not when I felt like I really...ah...wanted to. It was sort of, what they wanted.”

“But last night. YOU wanted that, too. And you liked it. Quite a lot, it seemed. And now...now in the light of day, you feel guilty. Yes?”

I nod, curl up against him like a cat, pulling my knees up to my chin, lean into him with my head tucked under his jaw. I’ve never been happier about our height differences. His long arms, all wirey muscle and tendons, are wrapped around my back, hands clasped together at my waist, and my whole body fits inside the outlines of his. It’s amazingly comforting to be folded into him like this. His lips are brushing across the top of my head lightly. Back and forth, back and forth. “There’s no need to fix anything. There’s nothing to feel guilty for. You didn’t do anything wrong. Alright?”

I hum, not really agreeing or disagreeing. Sherlock’s hand drops to my ankle, rubbing his thumb against my bone, and he presses his nose into the top of my head. “You’re a very complex man, John Watson. You’re the only person I’ve ever met that can surprise me. You surprise me every single day.”

“Do I?” I’m only half listening to him now. The smell of his skin, his thumb on my leg, rubbing circles lightly, my nose in his shirt. Tilt my head up to lay my lips against his collarbone, touch my nose into the hollow above his sternum. I just want to sink into him and forget everything else. I’m forgetting what I even wanted to talk about, my belly buzzing with the beginnings of arousal. 

“Since the day we met. I...oh…” What ever Sherlock was going to say fades away as I slide one hand down between us, between his legs, and press my palm against him. He starts getting hard almost immediately.

“Sherlock. I just want to. Please. I want to. I need you.” Dragging my lips across the top of his sternum, I feel his skin ripple with gooseflesh. Hand inside his shirt now, soft belly over hard muscle, his hip bone curving above the waist of his trousers. I feel half drunk, my ears humming, skin shivering, already hard. 

“Take this off, then.” Sherlock tugs on my shirt hem. His voice is a purr.

“Let’s go in our room.” Lips moving against his ear, his hair in my eyes. This is what I need, always what I’ve needed. I don’t care about any of the rest of it when I can have Sherlock, pressed against me, moaning softly, and breathing hot on my skin. 

His smile is sly, predatory. He slips his hand up to the back of my head and pulls me in for a rough kiss, all teeth and biting and lips mashed against mine. Pulls back and looks at me, heat radiating from his eyes. “OUR room. That’s lovely. Come on then.”

We lay down on the bed, and the air in the room is thick. I feel like time has slowed to a trickle. We’re just kissing and kissing, nothing but breath and small secret sounds passing between us. Sherlock’s half on top of me, his leg curled over mine. Runs his hand down my arm, puts his fingers to my pulse, smiles against my neck. “Your pulse is elevated, John.”

“I wonder why.” I breathe out, Sherlock’s lips on my earlobe, pulling it into his mouth, tongue flicking. Hand snaking down, tracing the outline of Sherlock’s erection inside his trousers. He curls his hips forward, pressing into my hand, making delicious whimpering noises against my neck.

We’ve not even taken anything off yet. 

Sherlock’s lips drag across my jaw, pressing little kisses until he reaches my mouth, and I open my lips to him, wanting his warm tongue licking mine. Suddenly, Sherlock pulls back, my lower lip popping out of his mouth. He’s drawing swirls on my neck with his fingers, making me shiver and squirm. I feel fevered, hot and goose-pimpled and sluggish. Looking down at me, his eyes half closed and heavy with desire, “Want to try something new?”

“Mmmm,” I hum my assent, rolling my pelvis up into Sherlock’s, pushing our erections against each other, making us both gasp. 

“Okay, good.” Sherlock slowly unbuttons my shirt, pushes it off of me, hands skating all over my chest and my stomach, warm and sure and possessive. “Good god, John, but you’re lovely.”

He leans down and kisses all over my chest slowly, mouthing my skin, one hand working my jeans open, now pushing them down, making me shiver. He reaches over to the bedside table, gets the lube out of the drawer, all the while watching me with a half smile and deadly seductive eyes. He slowly drips some onto his fingers, eyelashes fluttering at me, and then he’s kissing my neck hungrily, teeth scraping across my collarbone. 

“Something new, John.” He pushes my knees apart, and skims his hand over my cock, eliciting a deep groan from me, my head back into the headboard. “Ready?”

“Mmmm.” 

Sherlock’s fingers slip around, and suddenly, they’re pressing into me. My knees naturally fall wider apart, and Sherlock pushes in deeper. Back arching, clenching muscles around his fingers, my whole body shaking. I’ve never felt this before, another person actually inside my body. It’s crushingly, gorgeously intimate. “Ah, god, oh, Christ, Sherlock.” 

“Tell me if it’s too much.” Sherlock’s other hand is holding mine against the headboard, our fingers locked together.

My hips are rocking of their own accord. I can feel my orgasm already starting. “No, no, it’s not too much...it’s oh god, deeper, deeper, Sherlock, please…”

“Oh, John. Oh, that’s gorgeous.” Sherlock’s voice is breathless. I open my eyes, and he looks utterly obscene, his face blotched with colour, hair standing up all over his head, his eyes full of lust. He pushes a third finger inside me, all three up to the knuckle, and I can’t stop myself from pushing down to meet his hand. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock….oh god...please...I want you…” I’m on fire, completely out of control of my body, limbs shaking, and I’m squeezing Sherlock’s hand so tightly I can feel his bones moving under my fingers.

“You’re almost there. Almost ready now.” His voice curls around me like a silk scarf, like thick black smoke. God, he is pure sex sometimes. I can feel his fingers moving, pushing, and suddenly his fingertips brush against a particularly sensitive place and I can't help it, I’m bellowing and gasping and bucking my hips up, hot bolts of electricity running through my whole body.

“Oh, not yet, my sweet John, not yet.” It amazes me the different Sherlocks I have seen since we started sleeping together. He has never called me a pet name in his life, and I would never have expected any terms of endearment from his lips. But he seems to instinctively know exactly what I need and want, and he tunes himself to me, like tuning his violin. 

He slips his fingers out and kneels up on the bed, peeling his clothes off slowly, watching me. I run my hands over his belly, feeling every scar, every imperfection, everything about him that belongs to only me. He kicks his trousers off, dropping them in a pile next to the bed, and leans over to kiss me slow and deep. Then he slips an arm around my back, turns me on my side, crawls over top of me, and and wraps himself against my back. It feels like every single inch of our skin is touching each other. John&Sherlock. One person. He teases my legs apart with his knee, and I feel the head of his cock pushing into me slowly, and I can’t stop shivering. Sherlock puts a hand on my hip, long fingers splayed wide, gripping me gently, and rocks all the way in.

He’s slow and gentle, kissing the back of my neck and across my shoulders, burying his face between my shoulder blades. Rocking his hips steadily, whispering against my skin, “I love you, John. I’ve no idea what would have happened to me without you. You mesmerize me. You’re everything to me, everything.”

It’s intoxicating, feeling him inside me, listening to him tell me how much I mean to him. It’s healing, after the insanity of yesterday. I lean my head back and Sherlock lifts his face so he can kiss my ear, touch his tongue lightly to my jaw. I reach my hand to the back of his head, keep him there with me. 

He presses his nose to my shoulder, his whole body curled around mine, runs his hand from my hip over my stomach, finally coming to rest on my chest. His rhythm speeds up, hand pressing into my chest, he changes angle slightly, and each thrust surges into me like a bolt of electricity. My spine starts tingling, heat gathering in my lower belly, and suddenly I’m aware I’m moaning desperately loudly and digging my fingers into the back of his head. 

“Yes, John, yes. Come on, then. You’re right there.” Sherlock puts his hand back on my hip, pulling me backwards every time he moves forward. I never knew anything could feel like this. I feel like I’m passing out from the pleasure of it. “Oh, god, the noises you make, John. They’re extraordinary. I’ve never heard anything like it. Come on, come on, love, come for me. I want to hear you.”

He thrusts forward, harder, just once, and I’m gone over the precipice. Oblivion. My back goes concave, and I can feel myself tightening around Sherlock’s cock, and I’m nothing but heat and electrified skin and blood pumping hard. And then he’s biting down hard on my shoulder blade, and shuddering, gasping, legs shaking, and I feel him releasing, hot and liquid inside of me.

After, Sherlock kisses my shoulder, right on top of my gunshot scar. “You’re absolutely perfect, John Watson. Have I ever told you that?”

“No.” I mumble, barely capable of speech. My whole body is heavy and warm, and I feel like the air is made of treacle. 

“You are. You’re the best person I’ve ever known.” Sherlock gently climbs over top of me, lays down again so we’re facing each other. “I’m so sorry for all you’ve been through. And for my part in it. You didn’t deserve any of it. You’re so good.”

I reach out and take his hand, press his palm to my lips, smiling. “You’re an insufferable shit.”

He laughs loud and long, and so do I. We lay curled together for many minutes, drowsy but not quite asleep. Finally, Sherlock suggests getting some takeaway, I agree, and he pads down the hallway to get a shower. Things feel normal again. Or as normal as they get at 221B. Which isn’t very. 

Then Sherlock’s phone buzzes. I lean off the side of the bed, dig it out of his trousers. One new text from Mycroft Holmes. There’s only three words, which land a punch right to my gut. 

We found her.


	7. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life kind of chapter. Mycroft's found Mary, but what do Sherlock and John do now?

I stare at the text from Mycroft. I try to swallow, but I can’t seem to get enough saliva to do so. I never expected even Mycroft to be able to find her in less than a day. I feel sick, my stomach’s turning over. 

Should I reply? Sherlock’s in the shower. I glance at the bathroom door, where I can see his outline behind the curtain, decide he won’t mind, and then text Mycroft back. 

Where is she? JW

She’s just landed in France. She’s being tailed. We’re handling it. I’ll be in touch. MH

Shouldn’t Sherlock and I be there? JW

No, John. Stay put. I’ll be in touch. MH

I appreciate that Mycroft didn’t ask why I’m suddenly answering Sherlock’s texts. I try to think of a valid argument for Sherlock and I being there, and I can’t. There’s really nothing we can do that they can’t. I throw Sherlock’s phone down in the crumpled blankets, and jump off the bed, walk into the sitting room, hands over my face. I’m biting my lip raw. That white hot anger is roiling up in me again, I’m finding it difficult to breathe normally. Just the idea of being face to face with Mary again, as I know I will be at some point, knowing now it had all been a charade so she could get to Sherlock. That she never loved me for even a second.

It seems absurd, since I was in the process of throwing her over for Sherlock, to be upset about that part of it. But I am. I did genuinely love her, or who I thought she was, and I was gutted that I had to hurt her in order to be with him. It’s pretty fucking humiliating to realize how easily I was duped. It’s easier to deal with the idea of her working for Moriarty, easier to understand that there was - is - a hit out on Sherlock. That’s all the ridiculous shit I’ve lived with every day since I met him. “Regular people don’t have arch enemies.” I said to him that first night. And they don’t. But then, Sherlock is anything but normal. 

I can process death and hitmen and arch enemies and our flat blowing up and being kidnapped and having bombs strapped to me and guns to my head. I can’t process that I had an eight month relationship with someone that didn’t even exist.

“You okay?” Sherlock wanders into the sitting room, towel slung around his hips, towelling his hair. Despite everything, the sight of him fresh out of the shower, his hair messy and wet, and a relaxed smile on his lips, triggers a swooping sensation in my stomach. It’s staggering, really, how much I love him. 

“No, not really, no. Mycroft texted when you were in the shower. They’ve already located Mary.” My voice is shaking. Dammit. 

Sherlock presses his lips together and gives me a look filled with unmistakable compassion. For some reason, it makes me even angrier, especially knowing his part in all this. That even on my stag night, when I was climbing into his lap and kissing his throat, he knew what she was, and that this was all a ruse. 

“Fuck. I need some air.” I’m not even dressed. I let out a long shuddering breath. “I’m going to get dressed and take a walk, okay? I just need to be alone for a bit.”

“Yes, of course. Whatever you need, John. I’m here, should you want me...for anything.” He makes a hesitant move toward me.

I put my hands up, palms outward, defensively. “I really don’t want a hug, okay? I just...need some air. I love you, it’s not...it’s just…” I’m choking over my words. 

He retreats. “Of course. Just, make sure to take your phone, should I need to get in touch with you.”

“I will.” I grab his hand as I walk past him, squeeze his fingers. “I love you.”

His smile is soft and reserved. “I know. It’s alright to be angry at me still.”

“Oh, I fucking know that. And I am. Don’t you worry about that.” I yank his towel off and throw it at his head. 

He’s still laughing as I walk into the bedroom to get my clothes. It’s amazing how after all these years, I can want to murder him and fall into his arms at the exact same time. 

***

Forty five minutes later, I’m on my second go round the boating lake in Regent’s Park, walking fast, trying to calm my furiously working brain. It’s fucking cold for May, feels about 10C. I accidentally grabbed one of Sherlock’s shirts in my haste to get out of the flat, and it’s way too thin. It also smells like him, which is actually really comforting. 

Sherlock. He’s the one constant. The one thing that’s never confusing or wrong. Since the moment we met, nothing that’s happened in my life hasn’t revolved around him. He’s infuriating and selfish and thoughtless a lot of the time, but he’s also incredibly, desperately sweet sometimes, and I’ve never felt for a moment that I couldn’t count on him for anything, in any situation. I should have given Mary up the second he walked into that restaurant. I should have known in that moment, when I felt my knees giving out from relief, at the same time I knew I was going to punch him flat, that no one could make me feel that way except him. 

That only someone who makes your life worth living can make you insane like that.

Sherlock&John. One person. 

And Mary, sitting there smugly, knowing exactly what was really going on, pretending she liked him, that they were going to be friends. Oh god, the memory of it makes my fists curl up. I’m seconds from punching a tree when my phone buzzes.

Where are you? SH

Regent’s. Boating lake. Why? JW

You want to go to Bart’s? Check out that body Molly has? SH

That silly bastard. He’s trying to distract me with a bog standard murder case. It works.

I’ll be home in 20 minutes. JW

I told Molly we’d be there in an hour. SH

What are you trying to say? JW

Just that we have time...for whatever. SH

You’re a bad man. JW

You like it. SH

 

***

 

Sherlock hands me a steaming mug of tea as I walk in the door. 

“Tea?” 

“Yes. We have time for tea before we head to Bart’s, since we’re clearly not having takeaway. What did you think I meant? It was barely an hour ago that we had sex.” He winks at me and flops down in his chair with the newspaper, long bare toes curling on the hearth rug. 

“Well, you can’t seem to get enough of me, so…” I sit down in my own chair, nudge his knee playfully with my foot.

“I can control my sexual urges, John. I’m not fifteen.” His voice is mockingly formal. He folds his paper down far enough to give me a teasing smile. “Feel better after your walk?” 

“A bit. I just keep running our entire relationship over and over in my mind, looking for anything, ANYTHING, that would have given me a clue about what she really was. And I just can’t find anything. It’s really fucking hard to grasp that an 8 month relationship was all bullshit and lies.” I take a large steadying gulp of my tea. “It makes me feel like a right moron. Why does this shit always happen to me? First you, now her. Honestly. Is anyone I ever love going to not trick me?”

“John. I did what I did to protect you. I did what I did BECAUSE I love you. Because I would happily give my very life if it meant you were safe. Please don’t compare me to her.” He sounds smooth as glass, but I know he’s truly hurt by what I just said. 

“Oh, shit, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” I finish my tea in a few quick gulps. Pull the paper out of his hands, and lower myself into his lap. “God, you are nothing like her. I was just...forget I said that, okay? That was a really fucked up comparison.”

“You keep sitting in my lap, I’ll forget anything you want me to.” He smiles at me and winks, but it’s without any real heat behind it. I like this easy flirting this afternoon. It feels like us, how we used to be before. Oh. Huh. A thought occurs to me.

“Sherlock. Did we always flirt like this?”

He guffaws, head thrown back, his arms resting on my thighs. “Yes. All the time.”

“Jesus. No wonder people always thought…”

“Exactly.”

I kiss him gently, pull back and trace my finger down his nose. “Let’s go look at that body.”

“Oooh, sexy. You know just what to say.” He grins. 

The worst part is I know he actually kind of means it. 

***

“Female, obviously. Forty five. She was found by her son, fifteen, poor kid, in the green house in the garden. He said she was a real green thumb, always messing about with the plants. When she didn’t come in to make dinner, he went out to remind her, and found her on the ground. Already dead.” Molly reads off her notes on the dead woman.

“So, this trauma to the temple…?” I point out a huge gash in the side of her forehead.

“Not the cause of death. That happened as she fell off the garden stool. She was already dying by that point.” Sherlock, of course, dismisses me immediately. I should be used to it by now, but I’m kind of on edge.

“What am I here for, Sherlock?” I bark at him, peel my gloves off, snapping them loudly. 

“John. You’ve had a rough few days. Just calm down.” Sherlock fixes me with a look that clearly says Do not do this here.

I bite my upper lip, willing myself to not have a full on domestic with Sherlock in front of Molly. He’s not acting any different than he ever has. This is me reacting differently. This really is me. I take a deep breath, force myself to calm down.

“John? Are you okay? You want to sit down?” Molly’s putting her hand on my arm. 

“No, thank you, Molly. I’m okay. Just, uh, like Sherlock said...rough few days. I’m a bit knackered, and it’s making me stroppy.” I smile at her, pat her hand. She withdraws. Shit, I’m a fucking mess. My mood is all over the place. 

Sherlock’s ignoring me, circling the body like a cat with a mouse. Suddenly, he claps his hands together. “Molly, I can’t take this any further until I see the green house. John and I will go to the house. You collect her blood, and I’ll need skin samples, as well. We’ll be in touch.”

Molly has that slightly alarmed look she always has when she’s around Sherlock. She’s so much more relaxed when he’s not around. “Okay. I’ll...get right to that.”

“Very good. Come, John.” He stalks toward the door, coat flapping.

I almost laugh out loud, remembering him saying that to me in a very different context just a few hours earlier, but I’m able to bite most of it back. A choked little snigger escapes me. I try to cover it with a cough.

We fall into stride with each other in the hallway. Sherlock looks down at me and grins, “What was that?”

“Sex flashback.” I slip my arm around his waist. I don’t give a shit anymore. I want everyone to know. 

“Wha...OH.” He snickers. Ducks his face to kiss my neck, and his hand comes up to slide across my belly.

“Come on, Mr. Can’t Keep My Hands to Myself, let’s go to that green house.” I smile up at him. “Thank you for this. You know, for keeping my mind off it.”

He shakes his head, that half smile hitched on his face, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, John.” 

***

Two hours later, Sherlock’s already solved the case. It was your boring, bog standard domestic murder, after all. Turns out the husband was putting arsenic in her potting soil, knowing she liked to pot her plants by hand (See, John, no trowels?), and she finally succumbed, slipping off her stool and bashing her head in on the way down. Sherlock called Greg as soon as he figured it out, and we left the team there to collect evidence. 

We slide into a cab, and Sherlock’s arm goes around my shoulders. He looks at his phone.

“Anything?” I am starting to get desperate to know what’s happening.

“Nope. It could be days. Weeks. You know that.” He pops his phone back in his coat pocket, presses his lips to my temple, comforting, soft and warm. 

“I know. I just...I want this over with. We haven’t even discussed Moriarty yet, you realize.” 

“And we’re not going to. Not now. Angelo’s?” 

I am actually completely ravenous. I allow the redirection. “You will tell me. You promised no more lies. I think you remember that. I want Indian.” 

He shivers a little. “I promised. I know. We’ll talk about it. Just not tonight. Indian sounds lovely. Roti Chai, in Westminster? Not too far from home.” He snuggles me closer to him, his fingertips brushing up and down the side of my face.

“Sure. They’ve got good chicken korma there.” Silently slide my hand up the inside of his thigh. He squirms. 

“Now who can’t keep his hands to himself?” His voice is low and rough.

“Mmmm. I need a distraction.” I nuzzle into his neck, open my lips, tongue licking up into the hardness of his jaw. Press my palm to his groin. He jumps.

“Oi, you two! None of that, ya’hear. Cut tha’ out right now, or I’ll put you out.” The cabbie is banging on the partition. 

We start giggling like two teenagers, but break apart. I’m too tired and cold to be tossed out of a cab.

“You’re trouble, John Watson.” Sherlock’s arm is still behind me, his hand lazily rubbing my shoulder. 

I laugh. “You’re one to talk, Sherlock Holmes. You’re one to talk.”

***

“Ah, that was brilliant. Hit the spot, that did.” I collapse on the sofa, stuffed to the gills with chicken korma, naan, and sweet chai tea. 

Sherlock is fussing in the kitchen, putting away our take home boxes. I hear a wine cork pop. He comes out of the kitchen a few moments later, two glasses of dark red wine in his hands. He arches an eyebrow at me, inclines his head. “Wine?”

“Sure why not? I can’t get any more full at this point. Might as well start getting drunk.” I haul myself up into sitting, take the glass from him, and take a sip. “Mmmm, that’s nice.”

“You’re nice.” Sherlock puts his wine down on the coffee table, his eyes dark and lustful, and presses me back in the cushions, long fingers curling around my waist, mouth working over my neck and down to my collarbone. I’m so tired and heavy from food, I feel like I’m just melting into the sofa cushions. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock. I’m going to spill this wine everywhere. Get up, come on, move.” I prod at his stomach until he rolls to the side, grumbling, so I can set my glass on the table next to his. 

The moment I set my wine down, he’s on me, all warm lips and hard body, hands up under my shirt. I just feel so warm and sleepy, I could just lay here. He pulls back and looks at me. “Are you, uh...not interested?”

“No, I am…” I can hear how drowsy my voice sounds. I sound like I’m half asleep already. “I just, I’m, I’m tired. I’m sorry. I’m just so tired all of a sudden.”

“My poor John. You need to sleep. Come on.” He pulls me up to standing.

“No, really, I can be up for it.” Even as I’m saying it, I’m swaying on my feet.

“John. You always take care of me. Let me take care of you for once.” We walk into the bedroom, arms around each other’s waists. He drops me down on the bed, pulls off my shoes, and my shirt, tips me backwards and pulls my jeans off. I feel like a limp rag. 

He strips down to his pants, and climbs in bed with me. My eyes are closed now. I feel him kissing my shoulder, and then covering me with the bedspread. “I love you.” He presses a gentle kiss to my mouth, and then gathers me into his chest.

“Sleep, John. There will be time for everything else tomorrow.”

Something sparks in the back of my exhausted mind. “We’re going to talk about Moriarty tomorrow. You hear me? We.are.going.to.talk.about.that.” 

“Shhh. Okay, we will. I promise.” His lips against my hair. I snuggle closer, feeling every ripple of skin across his stomach, and the lovely weight of his arm laying across my side and over my hip. 

“Kay. Imunnagotosleepnow.” I drift off, wrapped in Sherlock’s arms, and think, this is all I ever need. If we can just have each other, be together, we can handle anything. Even Moriarty. Even Mary.


	8. Paris Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary has fled to Paris, and our boys are off to set her a trap.

“Which gate, again?” The strap from my carryon is cutting into my shoulder. It’s heavy as shit, with my gun and boxes of ammunition at the bottom - special security clearance, thank you, Mycroft. We’re walking as fast as possible without actually running, through Terminal 4 at Heathrow. Sherlock is 2 metres behind me, sipping a coffee from Cafe Nero’s and looking unruffled.

“John, we’ve really plenty of time. It’s a PRIVATE plane. No one is taking off without us.” He sips his coffee, looking at me from under his eyelashes in an infuriatingly calm way.

“Mycroft said to be here at 9:30. It’s nearly 9:40 now. Just tell me the gate, Sherlock.”

“74.”

“Christ, that’s…” I’m squinting up at the directional, trying to sort out where we are. “That’s like a 15 minute walk still. Will you hurry up, you’re making me crazy.”

“John. They will not leave without us. I know you’re terribly tense about this, and I understand…” He catches up with me, takes my hand and squeezes.

“No, you don’t. I’m sorry, but you fucking well don’t. It wasn’t YOUR fiance. And it’s not YOUR boyfriend she’s targeting. Okay? I have to deal with all the shit I’m feeling about her, and worry about you, too. You have NO bloody idea how this feels. It feels sickening.”

“I’m your boyfriend?” Sherlock looks surprised, he’s doing that chin thing, where it disappears in his neck.

“What else would you be? What? That not okay?”

“No, it’s...I’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend before. It’s...nice.” He smiles at me, a big, goofy, sincere one, all teeth and wrinkled cheeks.

“Good.” I twist my fingers tighter around his, enjoying this easy conversation, thinking of how hard the next days are going to be.

It’s been ten days since the initial text from Mycroft. They’ve lost sight of Mary in Paris. She’s deep underground. They’re sure she’s still in the city, but she’s clearly got a vast network of Moriarty confidantes and bolt holes. It was my idea to use myself and Sherlock to draw her out. Surely, if we arrived in Paris, she would soon find out about it, and show herself. Mycroft, shockingly, agreed with me.

Sherlock and I did talk about Moriarty, in fact. I forced it out of him over breakfast the next morning. No body was recovered from the roof at Bart’s. Sherlock had known that since the beginning of his own disappearance, through Mycroft. Whether Moriarty had somehow survived, or whether his body had been taken by one of his many minions, they had no idea. It wasn’t until months later, when Sherlock was deep in hiding, and I was busy drinking myself into a stupor at Baker Street, that Moriarty was spotted in Italy by someone in MI6. A few weeks after that, he made contact with one of his confidants in Switzerland, but the confidante was playing both sides, and alerted The Home Office.

The confidant ended up deaded pretty quickly. By that point, Moriarty had moved on, and made contact with Mary. That’s the point at which Mycroft decided to allow him to carry out his plan to get to Sherlock through me, through Mary, which basically got derailed because Sherlock and I ended up in bed. Had we gone through with the wedding, Mary and Moriarty both would still be in England, and tracking them would be infinitely easier. A fact which Mycroft has made abundantly and embarrassingly clear multiple times in the last 3 days - “If you and my brother could control your “urges”, the plan would still be in motion.” - Christ, he’s truly become my irritating brother in law.

It’s still unclear how Moriarty survived a gunshot in the mouth. I suppose we may find out if and when he’s finally captured, but even then...I don’t know that I’d believe anything he says anyway.

“John. You’re walking right past it, darling.” Sherlock nods up at the gate number.

“Darling? What the fuck is that?” I can’t help the slightly derisive laugh that escapes me.

“I don’t know. Just trying it out.” He rolls his eyes at me, looking a bit embarrassed.

“Well, come on, then, let’s get our arses on that plane. Darling.” I give him a shove in the small of the back, and we walk right past the unmanned check in desk. Two of Mycroft’s men are standing at the entrance to the boarding tunnel. They nod us through.

The plane is everything I expected it would be. All posh furniture and dark wood paneling, but rather shabby and much older than a commercial plane...pretty reflective of the government itself. Sherlock and I drop our bags, flop down on the nearest cushioned bench. His leg immediately settles overtop of my lap casually, and I reach over and ruffle his curls.

“It actually feels - when I allow myself to forget for a moment - like we’re going on holiday together.”

He smiles at me, but his eyes are sad. “I can’t apologize enough for having kept all this from you, John.”

“Honestly, you have. No more apologizing, okay? And, if I hadn’t had a fake wedding planned, I wouldn’t have had a real stag night, and…” I wiggle my eyebrows at him and lay my hand on his knee. “I mean, in kind of a totally sick way, this whole thing brought us together.”

“Ah, we wouldn’t have it any other way but sick, would we, John?” He gives me that half smile I love, and we’re both laughing.

Mycroft enters from the cockpit, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock’s leg over my lap. “Glad you two decided to finally show up. We were about to leave without you.”

Sherlock makes that completely irritated face that only Mycroft can bring out from him, all creased brow and crooked frown, “No, you weren’t. WE’RE the plan. You wouldn’t leave without us. Stop trying to be intimidating. That only works on other people.”

“You were the plan previously, and we see how well that worked out.”

“Oh, shut up, Mycroft. Don’t get me going on you and Sherlock pawning me off on a mad woman...just don’t.fucking.get.me.started. Okay? We’re here now, this was MY idea, if you remember, so just stop.” I really have no patience for this. My mood has been so all over the place since this all happened, and I can’t seem to bite my tongue.

“You really don’t want to get John angry, Mycroft. You’ve no idea what he’ll do to you.” He can’t keep the salacious grin off his face, and he gives me a look that makes me blush.

“Well, if you two are finished, we’re ready to take off. Short flight, an hour and fifteen minutes. Once we land, you'll be escorted to the Hôtel Caron de Beaumarchais. It’s just blocks from where Moran’s last known contact was made. There’s, of course, no guarantee she’s still in the area. In fact, she most likely isn’t. But she does have contacts in the area, and they will notice your presence. We’ve made sure of that. You will be tailed everywhere you go, and John, I want you carrying that pistol of yours, and have it loaded, at ALL TIMES.”

“Oh, don’t fucking worry about that, Mycroft. You’re lucky I took the ammo out for the airport. It’s been on me constantly.”

“Well, good. You’re pretending this is a romantic little getaway, though I don’t expect Moran will be long fooled, if at all. We will be around you at all times. I assure you, I will do my utmost to make sure you are both safe.”

“Well, thank you, brother dear. I’m certain you will. Now, scurry back to the cockpit and concoct your schemes, and let John and I enjoy our flight.” He waves his hand at Mycroft, clearly dismissing him.

“It’s gratifying to know how much you appreciate my efforts to keep you alive, dear brother.” Mycroft gets up with a sneer and retreats to the cockpit.

Sherlock smiles at me, triumph in his eyes, and lays back on the bench, kicks his shoes off, and digs his toes under my thigh.

“God, you are like a five year old around him. Will you two ever stop the bickering?”

“Unlikely.”

The planes engines rev to life, and it begins to taxi out to take off. My stomach unexpectedly clenches. Christ, I want this over with. I’m no good at playing games like this, I’m too open, too obvious, as both Sherlock and Mycroft have been wont to tell me on many occasions. This is going to be a really difficult few days for me. And add to it that Sherlock is the target. It’s become my job to keep him alive, in a very immediate and real way. I look down at him, forearm over his eyes, tousled curls around his head, so damned skinny...and he looks like an awkward twelve year old. My heart swells a little. God, if anything happened to him. I would just die. This HAS to work. Mary must be captured, Moriarty must be captured or killed, I really don’t care. But Sherlock can’t be in this level of danger anymore.

I peer out the window as we take off, watching London fade away below us. Finally, we’re in cloud cover, and leveled off. Sherlock seems to be on the edge of being asleep. I stand up to stretch and get a drink.

“Where are you off to?” Eyes still closed, arm over his face. He wiggles his socked toes at me. “Now my feet are cold.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m going to get a drink. You want one?” The mini bar is not so mini. I pour myself a glass of scotch on the rocks, take a huge swig.

“No. John, have you ever been to Paris?” He turns on his side, props his head on his hand, and looks at me, eyes green and hazel right now in the artificial light of the plane.

“A bit. Passed through when I was in the army. I don’t recall much. Pretty, old, lots of churches.” I take another swig of my scotch. Christ, it burns. And that’s exactly what I want. Something to burn and hurt and take away all the tension. I have a flashback to the pool all those years ago, Moriarty saying he would burn the heart out of Sherlock. Me, of course. It was me. Though I didn't realize at the time. Sherlock did.

“I love Paris. We used to go on holiday there when we were young. It’s so different from London. London is all throbbing and screaming and noise and fast, and Paris is slow and soft and insidious. It creeps inside you, like music. It’s beautiful. One day, we’ll go for a real holiday.”

It’s so incredibly rare for Sherlock to talk like this. It’s sort of mesmerizing. I set my scotch down on the tray, and kneel beside him , so our faces are inches from each other. He’s got a curl hanging over his forehead, I brush it back with my hand, kiss him gently. “I like it when you actually tell me things. Give me a little piece of you. It’s good. You should do it more often.”

His smile is slow and happy. Leans forward and presses his lips to mine, hand to the side of my face, thumb rubbing over my chin. He leans in and puts his teeth on my jaw, not really biting. “There’s no one coming back here, you know...we’ve got 48 minutes until we land.”

I laugh. “You suggesting we become part of the mile high club, Sherlock?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, John. I’m suggesting we have sex.”

“You...oh, nevermind. Yeah, alright, why not.”

Sherlock immediately sits up, snakes his arms around my waist and pulls me up onto his lap so I’m straddling him. "You really can't keep your hands to yourself." I say to him, running my index finger around the edge of his ear. He tips his head into my hand, humming, eyes closing.

"Who could, when you're around? I did contain myself for five years, you recall..."

"Technically three, since you were dead for two of those years." I mumble against his throat, lips over his Adam's apple.

"Must you constantly remind me?" He shifts down on the bench, so our groins are aligned, rubbing up my thighs with his palms, digging his fingertips into my flesh.

"Pretty much for the rest of our lives." Nip his jaw, tongue over stubble and warm skin. I can't believe it's only been two weeks since this all happened. It feels like forever, in the best way. I just can't remember anymore what life was like without waking up together, tangled limbs and tangled sheets, and kisses over coffee and sex in the shower...I can't remember how we were before. This just feels so right. Sherlock&John. One person.

"Let's stop talking now." Sherlock's voice has become a deep growl, and he's pushing his hips up into mine, his eyes dark. A hard shiver runs through me.

I can feel him half hard against my cock, and he lets his legs fall apart further so I’m rather between them. His hands rub up my back, pressing his thumbs into my spine, up my neck, and he takes my head in his hands, pulls me to him, kissing me ferociously, tongue immediately pushing my lips apart, nibbling my lip.

“Ah, god, Sherlock, we can’t. Not right HERE. Anyone could just walk right out of that cockpit.” He’s licking my neck now. Fingers in my hair, scraping into my scalp. He’s fierce right now, he needs rough and hard.

He yanks my head back by my hair, mouth on the soft spot just above my collarbone, and a spike of hot arousal shoots through me. I’m getting hard now, can feel the blood coursing through me. There’s a knot of tension I’ve had at the base of my spine all week that’s dissolving into a bright heat, spreading through my back and my belly.

“I know, John. That’s precisely why we’re going to do it right.here.” His face is absolutely wicked, crooked smile and sultry eyes, pupils blown wide with desire.

“Oh my god, you have a...thing..with doing it in public, don't you? We CAN’T.” I’m trying to protest, but Sherlock’s already working open my jeans, cold fingers slipping under the waistband of my pants, his mouth finding mine, and I’m arching into him, losing myself in this kiss. It’s burning heat, our tongues twisting together, biting each other’s lips, my arms looped around his neck.

“Get up.” I stand up, and he pushes my jeans and my pants down, my erection bobbing. I can’t believe we’re doing this. It’s insane. I can't believe how much I want to. 

He pushes his own trousers down to his knees, and inexplicably produces a small bottle of lube from one of the pockets. I’m trying to get a deep breath, as Sherlock grabs me around the waist and sets me back on his lap. I can’t stop touching him, my hands up in his hair and then down his back, over his mouth. He’s slipping his hand around my arse, and then there are two slick fingers inside me. A scorchingly powerful shiver goes through me, my cock is throbbing.

“Oh, John...You feel incredible. My god, you’re so tight, you're so…” He stops himself by attaching his lips to my neck. I’m rocking into his hand, I’ve completely forgotten anyone could be watching us. All I can feel are his fingers moving inside me, his soft lips tattooing his name all over my skin, the thudding of blood in my ears and in my cock, and oh god, this is so good, I’m going to come in minutes.

Then his fingers are gone and he’s lifting me up by my hips, repositioning, and then he’s pushing me down, and oh god, there’s his cock going inside me, hot and hard and splendid. It’s all I can do not to shout, it feels so good. It's so urgent and desperate. Every time we have sex, it's something totally different from the time before. This time, it's all heat and hurrying, friction and burning skin. I start rocking, my head falling back, hands gripping Sherlock’s shoulders, feeling his collarbones under my palms, bracing myself.

“Oh, god, oh, god. John, you’re fucking gorgeous right now. You’ve no idea.” He moves his hands down to wrap his fingers around my arse, pushing just a little, helping me get a rhythm going. “Yeah, come on, faster. Harder, harder…oh god, like that...”

His voice is strangled. I look at him, and he’s right on the precipice already. He’s watching me, his face is dark red, neck flushed, his lips open and swollen from blood rushing to them, his hair wild. 

I start moving faster, and Sherlock wraps his arms around my waist, anchors me to him, his face in my chest. I’m rocking so fast I’m losing the rhythm, but it doesn’t matter, because my stomach muscles are tightening, my skin is nothing but electricity, and my cock is already wet with pre-come, and just a few more thrusts…

“Oh, fucking hell, Sherlock, yeah yeah yeah, oh Christ...” I dissolve into loud moaning as I come all over Sherlock’s shirt without even having my cock touched for the second time this week. He claps a hand over my mouth, and he must like the look of that, because then he’s coming, too, silently, his head pounding back into the wall over and over. I can feel him getting thicker inside me as my muscles are clenching around him, and then I feel the heat from his release, and he’s biting into my chest through my shirt and I’m sinking my teeth into his palm.

I keep rocking, slowly, shivering and burning hot. Our foreheads bump together, and I open my eyes and look at him, all sweaty and red and utterly indecent. “Oh my fucking god, that was hot.”

“Yes. It was. You are.” He kisses me deeply, hand around the back of my neck. He licks my upper lip teasingly as he pulls back. “Now, get your cute little arse off of me, and get dressed. Because now that the moment has passed, I don’t relish the idea of Mycroft walking in and seeing us like this.”

“Me neither.” I jump up, feeling him slip out of me, grab my jeans. “I’m just going to run to the loo, clean up a bit.”

“Yeah. I need a new shirt, I think.” He’s laughing, though, as we both scramble into separate loos at the back of the plane.

When we emerge a few minutes later, we take one look at each other and dissolve into peals of laughter.

“That was RIDICULOUS. I can’t believe we did that.” I grab my scotch, recline back on the bench, one leg bent.

"I don't have a THING with doing it in public, just so you know." He twirls his hands at me in that dismissive way he has, but he's still chuckling.

Sherlock comes and settles between my legs, turns on his side, head on my stomach, arm draped across my thigh. I drop a hand to those inky curls, twist a few around my fingers. I never can resist touching them.

“I just wanted you. Right then. I couldn't wait.” He shrugs, as if that’s the only explanation necessary. And, actually, it is.

We sit there quietly, me sipping my drink, him rubbing my thigh gently with his thumb. The cockpit door cracks open and Mycroft emerges. He looks at us curled together and rolls his eyes. “I do wish you two could keep it a bit more *to yourselves*. It’s like being around adolescents all the time.”

He pours himself a drink and sits. “We’re getting ready to land in Paris. Can you keep your hands to yourselves long enough to have a briefing?”

“We’re sated, don’t worry, dear brother. We can wait for the hotel room at this point.” Just to piss Mycroft off, I know, he turns his face and kisses into my belly.

Mycroft makes a face like he’s just sat down in a rubbish skip. “Yes, well. If you’re quite done…”

“We were done about 20 minutes ago, actually.” Sherlock just can’t help himself from prodding Mycroft at every opportunity. “I wouldn’t sit on that end of the bench, though.”

Mycroft’s mouth actually falls open. Sherlock starts laughing, and I can’t help myself, despite it all, I’m laughing too. We can’t stop - we’re howling with laughter as the plane begins descending.

“I do hope you’re taking this more seriously than it seems.” Mycroft is the picture of parental exasperation. I really do feel like a teenager.

“Mycroft. I am taking this extremely seriously.” I hitch a somber look onto my face. “This is about Sherlock’s life. There is nothing I take more seriously.”

“Good. I would hope so. We have many more details to discuss once you’re safely at the hotel.”

The plane lands with a bump. I look at Sherlock, and he gives me a reassuring smile. This is it. We’re in Paris. The game is on.


	9. Operation Moran is Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, and Mycroft arrive in Paris. But where is Sybill Moran? Why isn't she coming after them?

“You will both need to be vigilant about who is around you. While you will be tailed at all times, you will still have to take reasonable precautions. Once Moran has been exposed to us, we will let you know, and then it will be matter of simply luring her to you, and we’ll capture her at that point.” Mycroft is sitting at the table in our suite at the Hotel Caron De Beaumarchais, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the surface. Must be a Holmes family trait.

“What about Moriarty?” I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, loading my gun.

“He’s too deep at the moment. We truly have very little idea of where he is. He’s certainly not in France. He never would allow himself to be in the same location as his...employees...for very long. Since Moran is most certainly planning a long respite here, if he was ever in France, he’s gone now. We worry about Moran now, and Moriarty in good time. Moran is the immediate threat. And certainly, we will likely need her information in order to get to Moriarty at all. So, for goodness sake, John, if you must shoot her, don’t shoot to kill.”

“If she’s about to shoot Sherlock, Mycroft, I can’t promise you jackshit.”

“If you kill her, John, Sherlock will continue to be in danger from Moriarty for much longer. You will be doing Sherlock no favors by taking out our strongest link to Moriarty.”

I let out a long breath. “Alright. Understood. I’ll not shoot to kill unless absolutely necessary.”

“You’re a crack shot, John. I know you won’t let me down.” Mycroft stands, looking down at me imperiously. “Just remember. She dies, so dies our link to Moriarty. And he will never stop pursuing Sherlock. If you want to keep him safe, you must not kill her.”

“I said I understand. I get it.” I finish loading the gun and lay it on the bedside table. I hear the shower turn off, and I few seconds later, Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of steam billowing behind him, and pulls a face at Mycroft.

“Still here? I think you’ve lectured John enough for the day, Mycroft.” He pulls open the door to the hallway and sweeps his hand toward it. “Bye bye.” 

Mycroft sighs, that long-suffering sigh of someone who has to deal with Sherlock all the time, and for a moment, I sympathize with him intensely. 

“Uh, Mycroft. Thank you. For, you know, listening to me, and for backing us up on this...you know, for everything.” Even Mycroft deserves a thank you now and then. Sherlock snaps his head round at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Well, you’re very welcome, John.” Mycroft nods at me, walks past Sherlock and pauses at the door. “You could take a page from John’s book, little brother.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and waves his hand at the door again. 

He shuts the door behind Mycroft, and flops on the bed beside me. “Lunch?”

“Yeah, sounds good. I’m starved.” I lean down and give him a slow, lingering kiss. “After all, we burned quite a few calories this morning.”

His lips curve up into a half smile, and he fixes azure and gold eyes on mine. “Want to burn some more?”

“Okay, seriously, Sherlock, that was an hour ago. No. I am actually starving, and Mycroft wants us to show ourselves as soon as possible, see if we can catch someone’s attention. Let’s go get lunch. I looked through the restaurant guide while Mycroft was lecturing me - there’s a Mexican place a few blocks away, La Perla. Supposed to have good tequila, enchiladas. I could definitely use a drink. Sounds good, yeah?” 

“Whatever you like, John.” He rolls over until his head is in my lap. “I know you’re terribly upset about all of this. You don’t have to be so stoic about it.”

“Have you met me?” I brush damp curls back from his forehead. “I’m a soldier, Sherlock. This is just how I am. It’s *why you chose me*, after all, yeah?”

He smiles, and turns those indescribable eyes on me, twisting in my lap so he can wrap his arms around my waist. “Yes. Yes, that’s true, John. Your forbearance in the face of almost any challenge has always tremendously impressed me. I’m just telling you that if you...you happen to have any other emotions about what’s going on, I welcome you sharing them with me. I would be happy to talk about...whatever you like.”

Fuck, he is so damned tender-hearted. No one realizes it, no one sees this astonishingly caring person protectively tucked beneath the layers of cold logic and utter lack of social graces and eccentricity. He just does that so he doesn’t get hurt. I didn’t always see it. I called him a machine once. When he was actually protecting me. I’ll probably never get over having done that. Sherlock has a bigger heart than most of us do. He just has the strangest ways of showing it. 

“Sherlock.” I put my left hand alongside his face, and with my right, take his left, and lace our fingers together. It continues to awe me how perfectly every single part of our bodies fit together, and our hands are no exception. Every curve of skin on our fingers, every bump of bony knuckle, every swell of our palms, sink into each other with not a hairsbreadth between our skin. They’re hands made to fit together. 

“Sherlock. If I ever need to share something, it will be you I share it with. If I ever need to talk about something, it will be you I talk to. If I ever need to cry, or scream, or freak the fuck out about something, you will be on the receiving end of that. You always have been, and now even more so. I promise you that I am very emotional about this - your life is at stake, and that terrifies the fuck out of me, because I can’t lose you again. But we have a job to do here, and we’re going to get it done. We’re going to fix this. I’m not going to lose you.” His fingers squeeze mine, and pushes his face into the curve of my other hand. “And what I’m feeling right at this moment is mostly hunger. So, while this is all really lovely, and sweet, and I love you so fucking much sometimes I can’t even breathe properly...I’d really like to go eat now.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkle up, sparkling blue, and he turns his face into my palm, pressing his lips to my skin. Then he laughs and jumps up off the bed, lithe and limber as a cat. He casually lets his towel drop to the floor, showing off that perfect arse. “Alright, John. Let’s go get you something to eat.”

***

“Oh my god, this is the best enchilada I’ve ever had. England really has crap Mexican food, don’t we? This is how it’s supposed to taste.” I mumble through a mouthful of cheese, chicken, and tortilla. My gun rests heavy against the small of my back, concealed by my jacket. 

Sherlock is looking out the window, eyes far away. He’s twirling a glass straw in his Bloody Mary - a rather ironic drink choice, as I pointed out to him when he ordered - and not eating much of his huevos rancheros. He’s been very quiet all through the walk to the restaurant and during the meal. He’s so mercurial. He was practically jovial at the hotel, laughing and flirting with me. And now he’s distant and gloomy.

“Sherlock. Talk to me.” I lay down my fork and take a sip of my beer. “Come on, then. Out with it.”

“We weren’t followed. Mycroft’s men are here. There. There. And there.” He nods at several people around the room, his eyes troubled. “But, no sign of Moran. Nothing. I don’t know why.”

“Well, Sherlock. We just got here. We’ve been out of the hotel for less than an hour. Give it time.” I shovel another mouthful of enchilada in my mouth. 

Sherlock watches me eating, takes a deep breath and a sip of his drink. I can see him willing himself to settle down. 

“Relax, Sherlock. We’ve plenty of time to be hunted down by my ex-fiance and shot at. The day is young.” I’m going for a laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. 

“I’m relaxed. I’m fine.” He flashes me that smile that could melt glaciers, and I know it’s my cue to drop it. “What shall we do after lunch, then? It’s supposed to be a romantic holiday. Let’s do something romantic.”

“Museum? Walk along the Seine? Oh, I saw the Victor Hugo Museum is nearby. You like Hugo.” 

“Fine, fine. All that is fine.” The smile has fallen off his face. He’s so distracted. 

“Hey. You need to talk to me. This is a case, like any other. We need to be in sync with each other, or we’re going to fuck it up. Sherlock. What are you thinking?” I lay my hand on his, rubbing his wrist bone with my thumb. 

“I wonder if this was the best idea. Perhaps we should have remained in London and let her come to us.” It’s unusual for Sherlock to second guess. But then, this was MY plan, not his. So, really, he’s second guessing me. 

“No. We were not going to creep around London, letting her dictate how this went. No. This is in our hands now. This is an offensive. We’re not retreating, we’re not hiding. We’re going to bring her out in the open and take her down, and that’s how it’s going to be and how it SHOULD be. She’s had her go. Our turn.” I nod at him firmly, and swig half my beer in one go. 

“Yes, sir, Captain.” He winks at me, and smiles. The mood has lifted a bit. 

“Call me Captain again later.” I lift an eyebrow at him and we both burst out laughing. “No, really, do.” 

We finish our meal in a relatively good mood, considering the circumstances. When we get up to leave, Mycroft’s people follow one by one, inconspicuously, trailing us about two blocks behind as we walk. It does actually remind me of an offensive, of a military operation. We’ve got the target, we’ve got the manpower, everyone is in place, knows their job...now we just have to finish it. I’m no longer distraught about Mary’s trickery, her false identity. I’m sure I will be later, but in this moment, I’m only two things: Sherlock’s, as always, and a soldier. I’m focused on the job, and keeping him safe. Sod Mary. I won’t let that shit interfere with what I need to do.

In the end, we do go to the Victor Hugo Museum, which is lovely and strange, in his old flat just a few blocks from our hotel. The flat is filled with Hugo family portraits, and samples of his writing, and decorated in rich wallpapers and heavy wood furniture. We hold hands and glance at handwritten manuscripts, and it would be really nice, except Sherlock has sunken back into himself again. He gives me distracted smiles and tucks his hand in the back pocket of my jeans, lays his head on top of mine softly. He’s melancholy. 

We do walk for a bit along and across the river, hand in hand, a chilly breeze coming off the water. We meander across the Seine, over arched brick bridges, and take in the huge white washed blocks of flats, medieval church spires soaring up between them. There aren’t very many other people around, the city feels languid and sleepy. It actually would be very romantic if I didn’t have one hand itching towards my gun the whole time, if Sherlock wasn’t so moody, and if we weren’t being tailed by Mycroft’s men.

We get back to the hotel around 5:00, and there’s a pretty high level of tension. Both of us are on edge. The waiting, the waiting is excruciating, feeling sure there’s someone lurking around every corner, someone in the shadows. I systematically check the suite; the bathroom, pull back the shower curtain, check the closets, under the beds. I know Mycroft’s men are all around us, but I need to check, for my own reasons that I can hardly name. She’s unnerved me. She tricked me, solidly, effectively tricked me, for months. And crept into Baker Street as silent as smoke. I know she’s more than capable of having it over on me. 

Once I’m done the suite, and made sure the door is well locked, I flop down on the bed. I’m knackered. Sherlock’s on his laptop on the sofa, the white light illuminating every lovely angle of his face. I can’t help remember having watched him for years, sitting just like this, my heart palpitating at the very idea of us being *more*, the back of my neck tingling every time he played with his mouth or rolled his head to stretch his neck. And now here he is, all mine. 

“I love you, you know.”

His mouth ticks up, eyes not leaving the screen. “I know. It’s rather amazing.”

“No it’s not. You’re amazing.” I say, through a huge yawn. “I’m just going kip here for a bit. Not long.”

“Go to sleep, John. We’ll go out for dinner when you wake up.” He waves a hand in my direction. 

I pull my gun out of my jeans, and lay it on the the bedside table, and almost before my hand is off it, I’m asleep. 

***

I wake up to Sherlock’s eyes boring into mine, centimeters from my face. It’s pretty startling, and I’m scrambling backwards before I can register what’s happening. 

“What? Are you? What’s happening?” I’m rubbing my hands over my face, trying to wake myself up. “What time is it?”

“Seven. You were dead asleep. Honestly, John, if she’d wanted to kill me, the last two hours would have been her prime opportunity.” He’s on his back, regarding me lazily, hands clasped behind his head. He turns his head and smiles at me, one stray curl falling down over his eyebrow. Heartbreaker. 

“Fuck. Fuck, I’m sorry. Jesus.” What a way to fuck up, Watson. Christ. 

“It’s perfectly alright, John. We obviously can’t stay awake 24 hours a day while we’re here. You were mercifully spared a visit from my brother. The short version is that we’ve got Mycroft’s people in every room surrounding ours, and in the lobby, and outside. There’s very little way she could get in here, regardless of you going comatose for 120 minutes. Mycroft is...impatient...for us to lure her out.” He rolls on his side toward me. “Are you hungry? Shall we go out?”

“Mmm.” Now that I’m over my initial alarm, I’m finding the idea of staying on this bed with Sherlock awfully attractive. He’s stretched out, ankles crossed, the indentation of his waist sharp against his hip. He looks...inviting. “Oh, I don’t know. We can always go out later. It’s only seven.”

His lips curve up, and he turns on his back again, throws his arm out towards me. “Well, come here, then.”

I shift across the bed until my head is nestled in the curve between his jaw and his shoulder, drop my leg over his. My belly fits perfectly in the hollow of his side. I nuzzle my nose up into his neck, and he turns to kiss my forehead. 

“Sherlock. What would have happened if I hadn’t, you know, made a move on you that night?” I’ve been wanting to ask him this for two weeks, but with all the chaos, I’ve never found the opportune moment. 

“You would have married Mary, and…”

I cut him off. “No, not that. I mean, obviously that marriage wouldn’t have lasted long. I mean, would we ever have, do you think? I can’t stand the thought of us not being together, like this.” I suddenly have a lump in my throat. 

“Oh, John. Does it matter?” 

“No, I guess not.” We’re terrible about talking about this kind of thing. Like romantic candlelit dinners, emotional discussions aren’t what either one of us is made for.

I turn my face up into him, my lips coming to rest against the underside of his jaw. I want to put my lips on every part of him, every bit of his skin. He’s got to know how desperately he’s loved. How desperately I love him. He’s always been treated so poorly, even by me. Denying us, what we were to each other, for years, in front of people. God, how that must have stung. He never denied it, I realise, looking back. But I did. All the time. 

And when he came home, after having gone through god knows what for two years, I punched him and gave him a bloody nose and yelled at him, and ignored him, for weeks. And he took it. Because he thinks, he must think somewhere in that big brain, that he deserves it. And I've never let him know that he doesn't. I've never let him know how deserving he is of love and of this, of us.

I draw my lips slowly over his neck, feeling his pulse beating strong and sure. Still miraculous to feel that, after I thought I’d lost him forever. He’s moving, twisting, pushing his neck towards my mouth. 

“I love you.” I whisper, starting to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He’s rubbing the nape of my neck gently, fingers warm and attentive. 

First button undone. Lips to his collarbone. Second button undone. I crawl onto him, my left leg positioned between both of his, kiss his sternum. Third and fourth buttons pop, push his shirt open, sweep my lips back and forth over his stomach, breathing him in, sugar and coffee, cardamom and cinnamon, heady and good...the tip of my nose registering the soft down covering his torso. 

“I love you.” I murmur into his belly, lips brushing over the bottom of his rib cage. “I’ve loved you since we met. I’m sorry I haven’t protected you and taken care of you like I should have. So fucking sorry.”

Ghosting my mouth over his skin, feeling him shivering beneath my breath, sends a delicious tremor of delight down my back. I want to take all the time in the world, show him with every flick of my tongue, every caress of my fingers against his skin, every touch of teeth to nerve, that I love him with all of me, that we belong to each other in the most profound and inexplicable ways.

“John.” His voice is a rough gasp as he twists beneath my mouth, his muscles tightening. I look up at him, and he’s watching me, his eyes heavy lidded, eyelashes fluttering in rhythm with my breath against his skin. “You always protect me. In so many...you don’t even understand. The very thought of you...kept me alive when I was...in the most wretched...situations. You’re always the one. The one person...that matters.”

"And you, Sherlock. For me. The one person." I smile against the subtle ridges of his ribs, feeling him breathe, move up and slowly swirl my tongue around the redness of his nipple. He lets out a long “Oh…” and brings his hands down, one to the back of my head, and one to my shoulder, rubbing and kneading. Kiss across his chest to the other nipple, flick my tongue, draw the soft mound of pink skin into my mouth, making him arch his chest into me, moaning low in his throat. 

“I love every part of you. Every scar, every hair, every bone that fucking pokes me when we’re asleep.” I lay my cheek against his bare chest, reveling in this, in him. Close my eyes, listen to him breathing, the slow intake, the shuddering exhalation. I could lay here and listen to him breathe for hours. “God, I fucking love you.”

I feel him chuckle, his stomach rolling beneath me. His hands roaming over the tops of my shoulders, up into my hair. “I fucking love you, too.”

“Sit up for a second.” I move backward, let him sit up, and then pull his shirt off his arms. Put my hand to his chest. “Okay, I just needed that shirt off. Lie back down.”

He obliges, lacing his hands together above his head. The planes and swells of his body are exposed perfectly, his pectoral muscles taut and raised, the long lines of his waist, sinewy muscles in his arms. He looks like a dancer, delicate and strong. 

“God, you’re beautiful. You’re absolutely bloody beautiful.” I resume kissing his stomach, mouth open, tongue sweeping into every ripple of his skin. He’s breathing heavier now, short sharp gasps, his hips beginning to roll beneath my shoulders. 

I don’t want to ramp it up yet. I move away from his stomach, kissing him less hungrily, up his chest, until my lips are against his shoulder. I lift my head and look into his face, the most contradictory face I’ve ever seen. He’s all angles and large features, prominent nose, strong jaw. All his features should add up to a rugby player, or a Roman god. Instead, he’s fine lines and childlike excitement, bright eyes and sweet soft lips. 

He moves to kiss me, and I put a finger on his lips. “No, not yet. I just want to...I just want to kiss you all over right now. Just lay there. Just...you don’t have to do anything.”

“What if I *want* to do something?” He raises an eyebrow at me, seductive smile playing on his lips. He lowers one hand to my stomach, tucks his fingers inside my tee shirt, playing with the waist of my jeans.

I gently push his hand away. “Later, you. I want...I just want to show you...how much…” I can’t get all the words out. I’m so awful at this sort of sentiment. So I settle for dipping my mouth back to his skin, nipping at his collarbone gently. He hums, eyes falling closed, and twists into me.

I kiss down his arms, his palms, take each finger and kiss calloused fingertips, knobbly knuckles. Slide my hands down his thighs without urgency, just wanting to feel the smooth hard muscles of his legs. “I love you. I’m sorry, so bloody sorry, I didn’t realise, before...and I plan to spend every day from now on making up for it.”

"Why so sentimental, John?" He's grabbing at me, fingers in my hipbones, passing his palm over my stomach, and down lower.

"Oh, something to do with us both being in mortal danger, probably." I bite into the soft skin under his jaw, and he bucks up, clutching at my hair.

Beautiful little gasping noises are escaping him. There’s a growing bulge in his trousers now, and he’s canting his hips towards me, one hand resting in my hair, and the other twisting a fist of the sheets. “I want you. Please.” His voice is low and pleading.

“Well, now, how can I resist that?” I put my lips to the soft belly below his navel, working open his trousers with my fingers. I rock back to sitting as I pull his trousers and pants down over his legs and drop them to the floor. I quickly disrobe myself, and kneel between Sherlock’s feet at the end of the bed. 

We share a secret smile, my stomach fluttering a little. Bend forward and kiss the inside of his ankle, up the swell of his calf, over his bony knee, until I reach the creamy smooth skin of the inside of his thighs. I nibble it a little, rolling a bit of his skin between my teeth. He lets out an “Oh!” and then allows his leg to fall open a bit more. Permission. 

I kiss and nibble my way up to his groin, where his cock is laying long and gorgeous and hard, pink against his white belly. He’s writhing a little, uneven crimson flushing across his chest, his hipbones swirling under his skin.

I press a kiss to the crease between groin and leg. “I love you.” Take his balls in my hand, cradling them, my middle finger gently stroking the soft skin behind them. He jerks and groans, head falling back. “I love you.” Take his cock in my other hand, and sink my lips over the head, tongue lapping at the underside. Sherlock moans, deeply, and curls his shoulders off the mattress, his legs bending up on either side of me. 

“Oh, god. Oh, god, John. Yes, more, more…” Both of his hands are on my head now, fingers frantically carding through my hair.

I take him fully into my mouth, until I can feel him touching the back of my throat, and my lips are touching the wiry mound of his pubic hair. His cock is jumping and twitching in my mouth. I run my tongue along the vein as I draw my head up and down over and over. Sherlock’s rolling his hips in rhythm to me, as in sync in bed as we always are in life. We just fit. 

“I’m getting close. Oh, John...I’m so, so close.” His voice is hoarse. I let him slip out of my mouth and look up at him. I always think he’s beautiful, but there is no version of Sherlock more beautiful than when he’s this turned on, scarlet lips and flushed cheeks standing out against his white skin, dark curls stuck to the sides of his face with sweat, his eyes nothing but pupils, black and fathomless. 

“Do you want to come like this? It’s fine with me.” I kiss along his belly, brushing my nose against his skin. He’s trembling. 

“No. I want...I want you inside me.” He grabs my hands and pulls me up so we’re face to face. I sink down into his mouth, and he rises to meet me, our tongues pushing and pulling against each other, skin rough with stubble, noses bumping. A messy, desperate kiss. 

I pull back from the intensity of his mouth, run my index finger over the sharp cheekbone, the straight long nose, finally dot the middle of that obscenely pouting lower lip with my fingertip. “I love you.”

“I love you, John.” He reaches up and grabs me by the nape of my neck, pulling me back in for another heated exchange of lips raking over lips, and he rolls his erection up into my stomach. “Inside me. Now. Please.”

“Just...hang on.” I crawl reluctantly off of him, grab my bag, and dig through until I find the bottle of lube. 

I jump back on the bed, making it bounce, and he laughs loud and long, that wonderful open, deep guffaw that never even seems like it could come from him. “You’re ridiculous, John.”

I climb over him, framed by his long legs, run my hands up his chest, and bend over him to tuck my nose under his ear. “You, Sherlock, it's YOU. You make me ridiculous. I’ve never...never...never in my life has it been like this.”

“That’s...ah...because it’s...oh...because it’s US. Because..oh, god...we’re...just…oh my god...” I push two slicked fingers inside him, and he can’t talk anymore. 

It’s been a few days for him, and he is so incredibly tight. I crook my fingers, pushing gently, but deeper. I can feel his muscles rhythmically tightening and slackening around my fingers. He’s rocking his arse into my hand, head thrashing from side to side.

“Oh, god, oh god...that’s so...right there…oh, John. I want you to fuck me, right now. I want you inside me. I can't wait.” 

God, every single time he says he wants me to fuck him, a hard dark shudder wracks me. The sound of that deep silken voice, the one that hardly ever curses, and the naked want coming through...it’s intoxicating. I slip my fingers out. “Okay, okay, baby. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You won’t.” He puts long hands on my hips, and tilts his own so his arse is resting against the tops of my thighs, planting his feet on either side of me. “Come on.”

I reach my hands around, parting him, and his legs kick up a little more as I rock forward into him. At the first real penetration, I can feel him tense and then loosen around me as his back arches and his fingers tighten on my hips. He lets out a long low breath. He’s hot and snug, and our bodies fit together so perfectly. I roll my hips in a slow circle, hitting every single part of him I possibly can reach.

“Oooooohh…” Every sound coming from him is deep and intense. He’s shaking now, skin goose pimpled and shivering, chest heaving. His cock is jumping, a bead of pre-come at the tip. I brace one hand against his waist and take his cock into my other hand, tugging lightly, fingers loose. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck...oh god, John...I can’t…” He’s thrashing now, head pounding back into the pillow, eyes clenched shut.

“Oh, you're cursing. It must be really good." I smile, roll my hips in another slow circle. Sherlock's fingers dig into my thighs. 

"Fuck, it is. It is - you are - so fucking good. Oh my god..." He's coming unraveled now, speeding up his hips, his mouth slack. 

"Yeah, that's good. You feel so good. Yeah, come for me. Come on. Oh, god, I love you. I love you so much.” I punctuate every word with a roll of my hips into him. He’s going rigid around me. I bend forward so his cock is pressed between our bellies, and kiss up his throat. “I love you. I love you. Come, I want to watch you. You’re so beautiful when you come.”

He comes then, head flying forward, shoulders rounding up, his fingers clawing into my back. He flops back, and then up again, twisting and shivering, his hands pulling at his own hair, come pulsing, sliding off the sides of his taut stomach. As soon as I feel his come hot against my skin, I feel my own orgasm starting. It’s a spring uncoiling through my spine, bending my back, twisting through my stomach.

“Oh, John. Yeah, you now. You. You make me crazy, oh my god.” Sherlock’s hands run over my shoulder blades, caressing the small of my back, and find my arse, pressing me up into him deeper, and I’m gone. 

“Ah, ah, fuck, oh god…” Every nerve in my body, every synapse in my brain, all firing at once. It’s the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had in my life. It's shaking deep inside, my breath caught in my lungs, hot bolts of electricity spiraling through my legs, my stomach tight and burning. Sherlock's hands are on me the whole time, pressing our bodies impossibly close. I feel like I broke my brain. Everything is fuzzy except his hands on me, his green eyes watching me. My body fills with warmth and weight, and I can't hold myself up anymore. I collapse on top of him, breathing heavily. My lips against the smooth curve of his shoulder. “I love you.” I mumble against his salty skin.

“I love you.” He kisses my temple, and rolls us over to our sides, still entwined. “You are the most amazing man, John Watson.”

Our noses are touching, his hand resting possessively on my waist. I smile, satiated and warm. “You are. Remember how I used to blurt that out all the time in front of people?”

He chuckles, rubs the end of his nose against mine. “Yes. I loved it.”

“I know, which would have been the best incentive to stop. But I honestly couldn’t help it.”

“You’re welcome to continue doing it.” 

“Oh, shut up.” I laugh and press my lips up to his, which are still hot and swelled and impossibly soft. “That was incredible. Though, you never did call me Captain.”

He laughs. “It was rather incredible.” His finger trails down my side. “But, we do actually have to leave the hotel room at some point so that Moran can track us.”

“I know. Let’s lay here just a few more minutes, and then back to work.” I snuggle into him, all the planes and angles of his much larger body fitting perfectly around me, his arm draping over my back.

“We would have, you know. I would have, someday.” His voice is thoughtful, quiet.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you asked me, what would have happened, if we hadn’t, on your stag night. What would have happened with us. I would have...I couldn’t have lived without you forever. Five years of waiting was long enough. I couldn’t have spent the next 50 years pretending I didn’t desperately and devastatingly love you. This would have happened, someday.” He hugs me tightly, my face crushed against his chest.

“Mmmmm.’ I hum happily. “Good.”

We stay that way for a few more moments, clutching each other tightly. “Okay, love. Come on. We need to get out of this room and go show ourselves. And I could definitely be talked into some kind of rich French food slathered in butter.”

“And I could be talked into some wine.” He smiles at me, green eyes glowing.

“Come on, then. Back to work, Mr. Holmes. Enough of all this sentiment.” 

“Right you are, Dr. Watson. Back to work.”

After quick showers, we get dressed and Sherlock texts Mycroft to let him know the plan. I tuck my gun in my jeans, grab Sherlock's hand, and we're out the door. Enough fun and sex. We need to get this over and done with. The sooner the better.


	10. Showdown in Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally face the enemies they've been seeking, but will things go as planned for our boys?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me so long, and I really, really appreciate all of you who were waiting for this. I hope you enjoy it!

We walk out of the hotel into the Paris night hand in hand. It’s 8:00pm. The Louvre is having a special exhibition tonight, Goya paintings on loan from Spain, and it’s open past the normal 9:45 closing time. That’s our eventual destination. The most obvious and public places, trying to make sure everyone knows we’re here.

There are throngs of people all around us. The weather has warmed up, inexplicably, from this afternoon, and it feels almost like summertime - humid but there’s a lovely breeze coming off the river. Notre Dame looms across the bridge. Sherlock leans over and kisses my temple, and I get another pang of regret that is is really no holiday at all. Maybe after. Maybe when this is over. 

We head down the Rue de Rivoli, towards the Louvre, which is only about a thirty minute walk. We’re planning to have a conspicuous dinner at a little brew pub on the way to the Louvre, a place Sherlock found called Au Trappiste. We’ll eat outside, and hopefully catch someone’s attention. Mycroft’s men are already staked out there, and at the museum. There’s two following us, as well. 

Sherlock’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out and glances at the screen, slides his eyes towards mine. “She’s here.”

“What? Was that Mycroft?” I reach around and tap my gun at the small of my back, a nervous habit, just making sure it’s there, though of course I know it is. 

“Yeah. Don’t look so stricken, John. It’s coming to a head. We’ll soon have this behind us.” He squeezes my fingers. 

“I’m not...stricken. I just hate playing games like this. Where is she?”

Sherlock’s face is lit up, his eyes glittering and brilliantly awake. He loves playing games like this. This is what he lives for. “One of Mycroft’s men is tailing her. She knows where we’re staying, she’s on her way there. I expect she’ll try to hide out there, which is fine, more than fine. The place is filled with MI6, there’s no where for her to go.”

“But Sherlock, don’t you think she KNOWS the place is filled with MI6? How could she not know? And if she’s heading to the hotel, why are we leaving it?” 

“I’m certain she does know MI6 is all over, but she’s absolutely confident in her ability to slip past almost anyone. She’ll still show up. We stick with the plan, John. Mycroft is certain she’ll try to get into our room, lie in wait for us. If that happens, Mycroft’s people will close in on her, and we don’t even have to see her. It will be done before we get back from dinner.” He chucks my chin, his eyes filled with an emotion that looks suspiciously like pity. 

“Is that what this is, Sherlock? You trying to spare me having to see her? Because that’s bullshit. I’m not some delicate fucking flower. When did you stop looking at me as a soldier and a partner, and start seeing me as someone you need to protect? Fuck that. Let’s go back to the hotel. Right now.” I drop his hand, furious, and spin on my heel to go back to the hotel. 

“John. John!” Sherlock comes running up beside me as I’m stalking down the street. “John, I’m not protecting you. She won’t come anywhere near the hotel if she thinks we’re there. She doesn’t want another confrontation like we had at Baker Street. She wants to take us by surprise, because she knows now that you’re a threat. I don’t think she’d understood that side of you before.”

“Clearly not.” I respond, thinking of the hateful things she’s said to me at Baker Street that night.

“But I do. I did. Always have. I’m not protecting you. I know exactly how dangerous and deadly you’re capable of being.” His fingers close around my bicep to stop me from walking away from him. “JOHN. I’m not protecting you, not in that sense. But we have a plan, and we stick to it. It’s just like the army, right? You have your operation laid out, and that’s what you do.”

“Unless shit gets massively fucked, and then you just do what you can to stay alive, and you improvise. What do you mean, ‘not in that sense’?” We’re standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, waves of people breaking around us.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath, looking incredibly put out. “I just mean that I don’t think you’re weak, or that you need protecting. But I also know this must be difficult for you, and I think this plan is better all around. You’ll not have to face her, hopefully, and she’ll be taken down by Mycroft’s people, and that will be that. Look, John, this was YOUR plan to begin with. You had the idea of drawing her out by having us come here, and it’s WORKED. When does Mycroft take advice from ANYONE? Honestly, be happy with that. Now it’s in Mycroft’s hands. And Mycroft doesn’t really want to have to explain you shooting the suspect.”

I know he’s trying for levity and charm with that last statement, that half smile on his face and his eyes crinkling at me. But it pisses me off. “So you think I’d just go off half cocked and shoot her? Is that what you think of me? That I’m just so hurt by this that I’d just shoot her down, disregarding everything Mycroft told me about not doing so?”

“No, John.” And his voice is gentler, soft. He takes my hand again, fingers threading together, and looks at me affectionately. “But I think, that if I was in danger, you would do almost anything to remedy that. A fact for which I am most grateful. But also one that also puts Moran’s life in danger, and we NEED HER TO BE ALIVE. Please, John. Be angry with me if you must, but let’s follow through with the plan. Let’s have our dinner, and go to the Louvre, and wait to hear from Mycroft.”

“Fine. But I AM angry.” And I am, and I’m not even entirely sure why. I feel like I’m angry far too much lately. It’s becoming exhausting. I feel something in me loosen, my shoulders drop. I look up at Sherlock’s face, his jaw set, allowing me to be cross with him again, for something that isn’t his fault, and I feel terrible. I’ve been angry with him so often for things that aren’t his fault, and he just allows it. He is everything to me, and he’s right. I would do anything to keep him from harm. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Shit. I’m sorry. Look, you’re right, Mycroft’s actually right, god help me.”

That elicits a chuckle from him, and he looks down at me, smiling tightly. “This is not easy for either of us, I imagine. The most personal and painful case we’ve ever taken on. I hate to see you in pain, and you hate to be in it. But you said it yourself, we must act as if this is any other case. Let’s just do what we would normally do, and get it over with, yes?”

“Yes. And I *would* do anything, ANYTHING, to keep you from being hurt. So. Yeah. Stick to the plan. Let’s go have dinner.” I take our hands up to my lips, kiss the back of his, he gives me a quick smile, and we head off to Au Trappiste, MI6 tailing us. 

I feel like I’m in a Bond film. Except this isn’t half as fun.

We walk past fountains and lots of wrought iron fences, and bright graffiti against sooty white marble buildings, Sherlock’s hand warm and sure in my own. He smiles reassuringly at me once every few minutes, and I can’t help but pull him to me for a kiss while we’re waiting to cross the street. The light changes, and people move around us, some grumbling, but mostly laughing. 

“You’re very convincing with this ‘romantic holiday’ charade. I’d no idea you were such a good actor, John.” Sherlock kisses my jaw lightly before pulling me by the hand across the street.

I try to come up with a snappy response, something clever and funny, but I’m too tired and distracted. “I just love you a lot.” I shrug. 

“Me, too, John.” His eyes are bright green in the streetlamp light, dark and gleaming. His cheekbones are in brilliant highlight, shadows in the hollows underneath. I have a flashback of my life when he was gone, when I was alone, realising how empty my life was without him. I feel suddenly heavy with the weight of everything we’ve gone through together. 

I guess it shows, because Sherlock asks me what’s wrong. 

“Almost everything, Sherlock. I’m just worn out. I’ve had enough of this shit, I really have.” 

“We’re not, John. We’re not wrong.” His fingertips graze my hairline, his eyes soft and sad. 

“No. That’s the only thing keeping me from completely losing my shit lately.” I kiss him hard, and slip my arm around his waist. His head tips to the side to rest on mine. “No, we’re not wrong.”

***

We make quick work of dinner. Neither of us is hungry, really, and Mycroft still hasn’t phoned. Sherlock has texted him at least a dozen times with no response. It’s nerve-wracking. We have no idea what’s happening, and I feel completely useless. It’s making me jittery and cross.

By the time we leave the restaurant, it’s 9:30. The streets are packed with people. We started heading towards the Louvre. I have a strange feeling. Feel like we’re being watched. I turn as surreptitiously as I can, and there he is. Black hoodie, jeans, definitely looks away when I meet his gaze, sticking out from the crowd. I arrange my face to look as relaxed as possible, as if I’m just looking round at everything, being touristy. 

“Sherlock. Pretty sure we’re being followed.” I lean up to his ear, pretending to press a kiss there. 

“I know.” He gives me a big smile, and puts his lips to my cheek, still talking. “It’s perfect. Draw her associates away from her, leave her more vulnerable.”

I touch my hand to my back, to the handle of my gun; it’s like a tic. Must be the twentieth time tonight I’ve done it.

We arrive at the Louvre, imposing and beautiful, the pyramid sparkling with light. Keeping up appearances, Sherlock fake points at some detail on the intricate facade, winds his arms around my waist, and pulls me in for a long kiss. “I doubt he’ll try anything here. He’s just tailing us. And Mycroft’s men are right there.”

“I’m not scared, Sherlock. Stop trying to reassure me. It’s fucking insulting.” I give him a huge fake smile and detach from him. “Let’s go see some bloody paintings.”

***

Sherlock texts Mycroft about the tail, but still gets no response. His nose furrows briefly, and I know he’s feeling concerned that he’s not heard from Mycroft in over two hours now. So am I, for that matter. 

We’ve done all this before. Been followed, staked out suspects, though usually with sturdy, dependable Greg Lestrade backing us up, not the other mercurial Holmes brother. Who knows what Mycroft could cook up in his own mind while we’re off being decoys. I’d certainly trust Greg more, though Sherlock probably would disagree. 

As we wander through the museum, my senses get more and more heightened. I can hear the tail, I can see him swishing behind door frames when our eyes dart his way. Sherlock, for his part, plays the game probably better than I do. He seems relaxed and cuddly, dropping casual kisses on my cheeks and cooing over particular paintings. 

I’m all nerves and alertness, ready to whip out my gun and roll into a crouch at any second. I try to seem like we’re on a date, but I’m too hyper aware. 

“Sherlock. What are we going to do when we leave here? If we haven’t heard from Mycroft?” I mutter at him through clenched teeth and a plastered on smile. 

“We’ll go back, of course. And see what awaits us.” He clamps his mouth together, eyebrows jumping. For the first time since we got to the museum, I see his tension. 

The museum closes at 11:00, and still nothing from Mycroft. The museum is clearing, and I’ve not been as aware of our tail as I am right now. He’s close behind us as we leave the museum, and I see no sign of Mycroft’s people. The streets are clearing, everything except pubs and a few restaurants now closed. 

Sherlock lays his arm across my shoulders as we begin walking back, and leans his lips to my ear. “Ready your gun, darling. For I fear we are quite alone at the moment.”

“I thought so. Where’d Mycroft’s people fucking get to?” I look into his eyes, and there’s no fear. there’s utter confidence in me, in us, to be able to handle this together. As we’ve always done. 

“We don’t need them.” Crooked smile, squeezes my fingers.

“Agreed. Though it did make me feel good to have backup.” I can hear his footsteps behind us, trying to match our pace.

The farther away from the Louvre, and the crush of shops and restaurants that surround it, we get, the more the streets clear. Soon, it’s just the two of us, and our tail, on a darkened block, where a few streetlamps are out.

“Ready, Sherlock?”

“Always, John.”

I nod at him, my hand already snaking around under my jacket. 

I hear the click of the gun cocking, and whirl myself under Sherlock’s arm, simultaneously pulling my gun from my jeans and bringing it out in front of me. I shove Sherlock behind me with my other hand. 

“You’re quick, Dr. Watson.” A crooked smile on his face, the man in the black hoodie is about 10 metres from me, revolver shining in what little light we have. He’s got a nose that’s clearly been broken more than once, rough skin, looks like he smokes a lot. He’s a lackey. No one important. 

“I was a fucking soldier. You have to be quick, or you’re dead. Where’s Sybill?” I bring my other hand up to steady my gun. I can’t believe no one else is walking by. The street is utterly empty, and I’m standing in a pool of yellow lamplight, the only one on the block. It feels entirely surreal.

“Oh, you don’t actually think I’m going to TELL you, do you? Come now, Dr. Watson.” His voice is oily and soft. He reminds me of Moriarty. “Besides, I’m not really interested in you, now am I?”

“No, I suppose you’re here for me, aren’t you?” Sherlock makes a move to step from behind me, and I immediately take one hand off my gun to throw it in front of him. He sidesteps me. Dammit, Sherlock. “John. You standing in front of me will hardly alter the situation.”

“I won’t hesitate to shoot you, Mr. Holmes.” He twists his hand, so the gun is sideways. Takes a step toward Sherlock. 

“But you already have.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, cocky as all hell. As usual. 

Goddamn him. Always so sure things will work out in our favour. But he’s not always right.

I sense what’s about to happen in the millisecond before it actually does. I roll to the right, knocking Sherlock down to the pavement, the lackey’s gun fires, and I feel the bullet ripping through muscle and tendon, my bicep in my outstretched arm feeling like it’s exploding, my bone reverberating with the shock. My trigger finger squeezes almost of it’s own volition, instinct taking over, and I see him fall with a thud as I’m clamboring over Sherlock to get the lackey’s gun out his hand. I have no idea where I hit him, if he’s alive or not, about to shoot again.

I feel like time has stopped, like we’re the only people in the world moving right now. I’m shouting at Sherlock. “Are you okay?!? Are you okay?!?”

He’s lying on the ground looking stunned. “You’re shot, John. You’re bleeding.”

“Fuck that. It’s nothing. ARE YOU OKAY?” Alright, he’s dead, I hit him in the stomach. That’s an immediate bleed out. I take his pulse to be sure, kick his gun out of his hand anyway. It goes skittering across the pavement. The sound is deafening. It’s eerily quiet.

“I...yes. I’m okay. But, John…you’re...” He seems paralysed. His mouth is trembling.

“Well, then fucking get Mycroft on the phone before we get arrested!” I have nothing to wrap my arm in. It’s starting to throb enough to make me feel like I’m going to be sick. My entire arm is covered in blood. I can’t get my own shirt off easily and I need a tourniquet. “And give me your shirt. Quickly.”

He shakes his head, like clearing a fog, and leaps up, already tearing his shirt off, buttons popping. I hold my good hand out. “I can wrap it myself. Fucking CALL MYCROFT.”

I can hear the sirens. This is a big city. They’ll be here fast. We haven’t any time. Kneeling on the pavement, I take one corner of Sherlock’s shirt in my teeth and wrap my arm as tightly as I can. It’s bleeding freely and quite a lot. An image flashes in my mind of myself kneeling in sand, sun beating down on back, and another bullet ripping through my shoulder, knocking me flat on my back. 

Now is not the time for war flashbacks, John. I breathe deep through my nose, trying to calm both my mind, and the pain surging through my arm.

Sherlock’s got his phone to his ear, wild eyed. “He’s not answering!”

“Right. Look, we’ve got to go. I just killed a man in the middle of the fucking street, in a foreign country, and you can’t get in touch with the only person who could explain this properly. We need to get back to the hotel, and FIND MYCROFT. And if we can’t, we need to find someone from MI6, or I’m going to be in some seriously deep shit.” I grab his arm and start walking as calmly as I can away from the body. 

I see a group of people approaching from a side street, laughing and chatting.

“Fuck.” I look around for a place to hide. There’s a bus shelter on the opposite corner. The plexiglass is fogged and scratched enough to hide us in the dark. “Come on, Sherlock. Move your arse!”

I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s foggy and slow, and I need him to be fast and clever. I grab him by the hand and yank, trying to be quiet. Trying to not be noticed. There’s a bloody body laying in the middle of the sidewalk. And people approaching, closer and closer, turning the corner from the side street onto Rue de Rivoli. Any second now. Any second they’ll see the body. And here come the sirens. they were audible a few seconds ago, now I see lights. 

Fuck. The bus shelter isn’t going to be good enough. We have got to RUN. 

“Sherlock. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you right now, but you need to clear your fucking head and RUN with me, understand? We have got to get out of here. NOW.” I wrap our fingers tightly together and take off. Heart pumping faster, my arm is throbbing, blood soaking through Sherlock’s shirt. 

It’s a good thing Sherlock’s legs are so much longer than mine, because he wouldn’t be able to keep up otherwise. I feel like smacking the shit out of him, just to wake him up. I glance at him, and he’s staring at my arm in horror. So that’s it. He never believes anything can really happen to either of us, like we’re invincible, because he’s so clever and I’m always armed. He never does live in reality. 

We’re two blocks away, sheathed in the blessed darkness from broken streetlamps, when I hear the scramble of police and ambulance, the slamming of doors, people shouting. How far are we from the hotel? Maybe three blocks. Must get there. I put on a burst of speed, dragging Sherlock behind me, a step out of sync. 

Finally, we arrive at the hotel. I can’t believe we made it out of there. I allow myself a second, just one, to calm my heaving chest, and then we slip into the hotel like cats, trying not to be seen by anyone. There are two people working the front desk. Luckily no other guests are in the lobby this late, but my blood soaked arm and Sherlock’s bare chest are sure to draw immediate attention. We skid along the wall, trying to go slow, but end up kind of running as we get closer to the elevator bank. 

Once we’re in the elevator, I allow myself to sink down the wall a bit. I need medical attention for this arm. My bag is in the room. Course, Sybill may also be. Somewhere in Paris, I’ve stopped thinking of her as Mary. 

“John. Oh god, are you alright?” Sherlock bends over me, hands sliding gingerly under my armpits, trying to hold me up. His voice is shaking. 

“I’m alright, Sherlock. Not my first go round with being shot, you know. Just let me, just let me sit on the floor for a minute, okay?” I give him a weak smile. “But you are an insufferable prat, you know. Egging him on like that, what the fuck were you doing?”

Sherlock shakes his head, swallows hard. His eyes are red rimmed, his hands carding through his hair. He’s a mess. Maybe he was right all along, sentiment is a weakness for him. 

“Sherlock. You’ve got to pull yourself together. It’s just a bullet wound. I’ll be okay. It’s nothing vital.” Well, I’m not entirely certain of that yet, but no reason to tell him that. I jerk my chin at his phone. “Call Mycroft. Here’s our floor.” 

I drag myself up, arm burning with pain. Sherlock dials with shaking hands, and I pull my gun out with my good arm. I put my finger to my lips, and hold the elevator door open with my foot, swiveling my head out. I motion for Sherlock to get behind me. His phone is pressed to his ear. We creep to the end of the elevator bank, and I sweep my eyes up and down the hallway, gun out in front of me. 

Seemingly clear. I wave my gun at Sherlock, mouth “We’re going to run.” at him. He nods. We take off down the hall at breakneck speed, skidding to a stop in front of the door to our room. Fuck, where the fuck is the key?!? I finally yank it out of my back pocket and slide it into the key reader. It goes red, buzzes. 

FUCK.

I try again. Red. 

Sherlock is quivering beside me, head on a constant swivel, looking up and down the hall. 

Again. Red. 

This feels ominous. Someone tampered with this key. 

Just then, I feel the door handle moving under my palm. Oh. Fuck.

The door swings open, and it’s neither Sybill nor Mycroft, the two people I would have expected. 

Jim Moriarty smiles that predatory grin at me. “Hello, Johnny boy. Miss me?”

***

I’m speechless for only a second. “Not a bit.”

He sticks his lower lip out, big sad eyes, a mockery of a child’s pouting face. “Aw, I thought you might miss me a little. We were so close before.”

“Not really.” 

“Sherlock. I hear you and Johnny have gotten...how shall I say it? More intimate? Since last we met. I have to say, I’m a little jealous. I thought we were...exclusive.” He’s rocking back and forth on heels, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a friendly acquaintance we happened to run into on holiday.

I’m starting to feel faint. Fuck. My arm is on fire. 

“So where are the snipers this time, JIM? Since we’re on a first name basis.” Sherlock’s regained a bit of his snark in Moriarty’s presence. He loves this shit. 

I’m just trying not to throw up from the pain in my arm, and the blood loss. 

“No snipers. Just old friends getting reacquainted. I hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend for Johnny, too. Thought he might want to catch up.” He steps back, allowing us to see into the room, and there’s Sybill, perched on the edge of the bed that Sherlock and I were loving each other in not five hours before. She wiggles her fingers at me like we’re flirting. It makes me sick. 

“Where’s my brother?” Sherlock’s voice is surprisingly steady.

“Oh, him. Bo-oring. I took care of him. Well, not ME...but…” And in a half second, Sherlock’s got him by the throat up against the wall, his nose almost touching Moriarty’s.

“Where. the. fuck. is. my. brother.” 

Sybill’s got her gun pointed at Sherlock immediately. I point mine at her. 

We stare at each other. This stranger who shared my bed for eight months. 

“I will kill you if you try. I’ve already killed one of your associates tonight. Put your fucking gun down. I SAID, PUT YOUR FUCKING GUN DOWN!” I’m fighting so hard just to stay upright. My head is swimming.

She doesn’t, of course. I push past Sherlock and Moriarty, still locked together against the wall, and put myself in between Sherlock and an assassin for the second time tonight. 

“John, you are really surprising. I never saw a whit of this all those boring months together. Maybe I would have liked you more if I’d seen some this...passion.” She’s trying to bait me, her blonde head tipping to the side, flirty, smiling. 

“Maybe I just wasn’t passionate for you.” I am literally listing to the side. I have GOT to lean up against something.

“You’re bleeding, you know.” She pulls a face of mock concern.

“I’m aware. What’s the endgame here? Killing Sherlock? Is that really all you people want? Because I tell you now, I will NEVER let you live if you try it.” My gun hand is still steady. “I will fucking shoot you where you stand.”

“Aw, such a sweet boyfriend. Declarations of love.” She purses her mouth at me, and I want to slap her. 

Sherlock’s still got Moriarty pinned against the wall. Suddenly, there’s an explosion of movement, and Moriarty’s trying to get Sherlock’s hand off his throat, and Sherlock’s hand is tightening, Moriarty’s face turning purple. They’re scrabbling against the wall, both of Moriarty’s hands around Sherlock’s forearm, scratching at his skin. 

Sybill’s gun cocks. “I’d suggest letting him go, Sherlock.” 

Oh, fuck no. I have had enough of this tonight. “I will shoot you. Don’t. Just don’t.”

“Tell your lover over there to unhand Mr. Moriarty, and maybe we can get a bit more civilised in here.” She gestures at Sherlock.

I consider for a moment. At least it will buy us some time. “Sherlock. Let him go. You’ll never find out what happened to Mycroft this way. Sherlock. SHERLOCK. Let him go.”

I can see Sherlock struggling with himself. Finally he breathes out shudderingly, and drops his arm. Moriarty brings his hands to his raw neck, rubbing. 

“Alright. Tell us what’s happened to Mycroft Holmes. Even if he’s...dead. Just tell us.” I finally sink into a chair, my gun still trained on Sybill. I just can’t stand anymore. 

“Mycroft has been...deactivated for the moment. He’s not dead. But I assure that he could be in SECONDS with the right word from me.” Moriarty’s voice is scratchy from having Sherlock’s fingers around his throat for the last five minutes. 

I don’t mention the other MI6 agents in the hotel, because neither Sybill nor Moriarty has. Sherlock is shaking with rage. I’ve actually never seen him like this. Silent and deadly, yes, but red faced and shaking, no. I guess me being shot in front of him and his brother possibly being killed in the same night is a bit too much even for Sherlock. 

“So what now? We just...sit here all night?” I’m fighting passing out now. There’s blood dripping off my fingers onto the floor. 

“Nooooo. I don’t think so.” Moriarty makes a sad face at me. “While it’s been SO much fun playing with you boys for the last few years...I really think I’m done now. Daddy has truly had enough now. Toodles, Sherlock. It’s been fun. Shoot him, Sybill.”

She raises her gun as Moriarty turns to leave the room. 

Sherlock’s whole body convulses as a gunshot rings out in the small room. He looks down at himself, expecting that he’s bleeding. Sybill looks confused for a moment, and her eyes drop to her gun.

“No.” I say. “You didn’t shoot.” 

My gun arm falls down on my lap, as a blood stain blossoms on Sybill’s shirt. She falls backward on the bed, almost gracefully. Moriarty is standing in the doorway, staring at her, stunned into silence, for once. 

“I told you.” My voice is starting to fade. I won’t be conscious much longer. “I told you...you’d never live if you tried to hurt him. Not very well played this time, Jimmy boy.”

Before Moriarty can answer me, there’s a flurry of movement in the hallway. All our eyes turn toward the half open door, as at least five MI6 agents swarm in, guns drawn. Sherlock backs up, kneels by the chair I’m sitting in. 

“Took...you...long...enough…” I say to them, their faces blurring. “Where...where the fuck...is Mycroft?”

The last thing I see before I finally succumb to passing out is Sherlock’s hand gripping mine, and Moriarty being cuffed. Then it’s blackness. 

***

“John? John? Are you…? Oh, you're awake. You're awake.” Sherlock’s voice is very far away. My head hurts, and my throat is terribly dry. 

I feel Sherlock’s hand laying on my forehead, then his lips pressed to my brow. I’m trying to open my eyes, but...my lids are so heavy. I don’t feel like I can move them. 

“John, can you hear me?”

I lick my lips. I literally have no saliva. “Water.” I croak out.

“Oh. Yes. Hang on.” I feel a straw touching my lips, and then there’s lukewarm water, and oh, that’s so much better. I drink and drink until Sherlock takes it away. “Not too much. You’ll be sick.”

Finally, I force my eyes open, and oh god, it’s fucking bright. I wince, blinking my eyes shut again. “Sherlock, can you...turn the lights off?”

He jumps up so quickly that he nearly kicks his chair over, making a horrid racket that rumbles through my aching head like someone hit me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Yes, I’ll get the lights off.”

He flips off the lights and I’m finally able to open my eyes properly. It’s a hospital room. My arm is bandaged and splinted, bent at a right angle to my stomach. Sherlock is sitting next to me, looking as though he hasn’t slept in forever, eyes red-rimmed, hair a disaster. But he’s smiling at me. 

“Hey, you.” I breathe out, and flop my good arm towards him. 

He takes my hand gently and puts his lips to my palm. Looks up at me, eyes shining. “How do you feel?”

I snort a laugh, which hurts. “How the fuck do you think I feel? Like I got shot. And lost a lot of blood. I feel like complete shit.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I...got you shot, and then...I was...useless. I couldn’t…I have no idea what happened to me.” He’s got my hand pressed to the side of his face now. 

“Sherlock. Someone was going to be shot that night, okay? I mean, it just...it was inevitable. Better me than you, okay? I’ve been shot before, I can take it.” I rub my thumb over his mouth for a moment. “It’s not your fault.”

He closes his eyes, kisses my thumb, desperately, sadly. 

"Remember what I told you about plans in the army? Improvising? Well, that's what we did. Shit got massively fucked, and we did the best we could. And since we're both alive, I'd say we did not bad. Now stop all your fucking moping, and tell me what happened after I passed out.”

“Um, well...MI6 had been listening the whole time. They said they were waiting to get as much on tape as they could. They took Moriarty. Sybill...she died, John.”

“Well. I did warn her. Though I did do exactly the thing you and Mycroft told me not to do...” I do feel a stab of grief, or guilt. Something. She shared my life, my bed, for months. I do have regret. But she was about to kill my Sherlock. And I couldn’t have that. "And I knew we didn't need her to catch Moriarty, since he was right fucking there."

That actually draws a laugh from Sherlock. 

“And Mycroft?” I’m almost afraid for the answer.

“He’s alright. Well, he’s here, in the hospital. Afraid the Holmes brothers often have the same cocky attitude that gets us into trouble. From what I can gather, Mycroft went out to some patisserie, you know how he loves cake, and Moriarty ambushed him. He should have had people with him, but he didn’t, assuming himself to be above the rabble, so to speak. And he was SO certain Moriarty wouldn't be anywhere near Paris. Well...we all were. We miscalculated badly on that score. Moriarty's people weren’t easy on him - bit of torture, actually - but he’ll be alright. MI6 was able to negotiate with Moriarty for Mycroft’ whereabouts. I'll tell you the rest when you're better. But rest assured, he is alright.” He looks relieved. he does truly love his brother, regardless of their bizarre dynamic.

He smoothes my sheets. “Now, you get some more rest. You need anything to eat?”

“How long have I been out?” 

“Just a night. It’s noon.” His face is a mask of worry and guilt. 

I move over so my hip is pressed up against the cold metal of the bed railing. “Come here. Stop blaming yourself, and stop being so damned careful with me. Come on. All I need is you. Get over here, you stupid git.”

He crawls carefully into the narrow hospital bed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. I just need you here with me, okay?” He stretches out beside me, and cautiously lays his head on my good shoulder. When I don’t flinch, he moves a little closer. I put my arm around his back, and pull him tighter against me. Finally, my whole side is warm against him, and the weight of his head on my shoulder is the most blessed feeling I’ve ever had in my life. I can feel his curls against my neck, his breath moist on my chest through the thin material of the hospital gown.

“Will you stay here while I sleep?” Because I do think I need more rest. I’m feeling half drunk with exhaustion after only a fifteen minute conversation.

“Of course, John. I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is so tender, it makes my heart contract.

“Good. Just stay with me. You’re all I need.” And I allow myself to sleep again, my arm throbbing a little, but Sherlock’s presence, his chest rising and falling against my ribs, his arm curled at my hip, and safe, mitigates the pain. John&Sherlock. One person.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return to normal in the wake of the showdown with Moriarty and Moran in Paris.

I wake up groggy and in pain. My fucking arm, oh my god. It feels like its literally made of fire. Stiff, aching, searing, fire. My hip is still mashed up against the bed rail, and numb as hell. Sherlock’s here, curled at my side, one ankle crooked over mine, his hands tucked into his chest, and his head at a very awkward angle. He looks miserably uncomfortable. 

I can’t believe he stayed here all afternoon like this. It’s dark now. No idea what time it is. 

“Sherlock. Hey. Wake up.” I elbow him gently, as I can’t really move any other part of my body. 

His head snaps up, immediately alert. “Are you okay?” He says thickly, licking his dry lips. The hospital air is dry as a desert. 

“I’m actually really bloody uncomfortable, and you don’t look much better. I need food. And something to drink. And painkillers.The sooner the better.” I’m too tired and in pain to be less blunt.

He unfolds his long body as quickly as he can, scrambling a bit, bumping his shin hard on the metal bedframe. He winces, but tries to hide it. “I’ll get the nurse. And I’ll pop to the canteen and get you something to eat. What would you like, John?”

“I honestly don’t care. Just please get me something for my arm. It’s..uh...pretty fucking painful.” I’m actually biting back nausea at this point. I’m so hungry, and my arm hurts so badly, I’m on the edge of dry heaving. 

Sherlock dashes away, a worried look on his face, and I must pass back out while he’s gone. Because next thing I know, I’m waking up to the smell of cooked meat and my arm hurts quite a bit less. I struggle a bit to open my eyes. 

“John? Are you awake? I brought you dinner. The nurse put morphine in your drip for the pain. Is it helping?” Sherlock’s pulled a chair up next the bed, and he’s got a tray of something that looks like deflated Yorkshire pudding, peas, and limp chips, and a can of Coke. It looks GLORIOUS. 

I nod, and scoot up the mattress to sitting, or I try to, which isn’t easy with only one good arm. Sherlock steps forward and hooks a hand under my shoulder, pulling me up gently. I hold my hand out for the tray. “Come on, then. I’m starving.”

Sherlock lays the tray across my outstretched legs and I tuck in. It’s floppy hospital food, and a French imitation of English food at that, but it is absolutely the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Sherlock sits next to the bed, hands templed under his chin, watching me eat. 

Finally, when there’s only a few extremely greasy chips left on the tray, I lay back. “Oh, that was bloody wonderful.” 

Sherlock smiles for the first time since I woke up, that lovely crooked grin that makes me melt a bit. He grabs the tray off my lap and puts it on top of the extra chair in the room. “Feel better?”

“Oh, yeah. Much.” I smile at him, and stretch my good arm out toward him, fingers curling.

His much larger hand immediately closes over mine, and his lips brush over my wrist. “What can I do, John? What can I do for you?”

“Nothing. Honestly. Just talk to me. Stay here. How’s Mycroft?” Sherlock’s brow furrows when I ask about Mycroft.

“He’s...stable. He’s got a lot of internal injuries. He was...beaten pretty badly.” His lips press together in a thin line, his eyes shift down to our entwined hands. He really does care about his brother so much, even though they make each other mental.

“Is he conscious?” I try to sound as gentle as I can.

Sherlock shakes his head and swallows hard. 

“Oh, Sherlock. He’ll be alright, love. Do you want me to take a look at him?” I know Sherlock trusts my medical opinion. While I might not be able to add anything to Mycroft’s diagnosis, it might just make Sherlock feel better. 

“John, you’re lying there with a gunshot wound, drugged with enough painkillers for three people, after you saved my life TWICE last night...and you’re offering to go examine Mycroft?” He laughs joylessly and grips my hand tighter. “I really don’t deserve you.”

“You really DO. We deserve each other. Take that however you like.” I chuckle and lay back on my pillow, my eyelids feeling heavier by the second. I think I’m ready for sleeping again. “Sherlock, go back to the hotel. Get some sleep. I’m going to pass out for about twelve more hours, I think. I can look in on Mycroft in the morning. I’ll be better by then. Get out of here for now.”

I feel him leaning over me, his hand on the bed, weight dipping the mattress down, then his lips are on mine, gentle pressure, one hand cupping my face. “I’m not going anywhere.” He whispers against my mouth, thumb trailing down the cleft of my chin. 

“Okay. Well, if you’re not going anywhere, then get back in this horrible creaky uncomfortable bed, and put your arms around me. Because I don’t give a shit how uncomfortable we are. I want you right here.” I’m half asleep, my eyes burning. At least my arm isn’t anymore. In fact, my arm feels sort of like it’s floating. 

“Budge over.” He sounds more than happy to oblige me, and then his warm body is next to mine, and he very carefully threads an arm behind my shoulders, drawing me into his chest, turning us both on our sides a bit, towards each other, making sure to avoid my gunshot wound. 

My whole body relaxes against him. His heart is thudding away next to my ear, and I feel his arms close around me snugly. I’m not entirely sure, as I’m being sucked into a narcotic induced sleep, but I think I hear him whisper, “I didn’t lose you. I didn’t lose you.”

***

The next few days are an increasingly lessening fog of sleeping, pain, and eating. Sherlock barely leaves the hospital, between me and Mycroft. He spends every night in the cramped hospital bed with me, and every morning sitting by Mycroft’s bedside. On day three, I finally get the drip line taken out of my hand, and I’m downgraded to painkillers by mouth. We get a few visits from associates of Mycroft’s, we get questioned by the Paris police, and Sherlock takes a trip to the British Embassy. The two dead bodies I left in my wake have been claimed by the UK, it’s all been sorted at a governmental level far above my understanding. 

I ask him more than once about the why and the how, just because I’m still a bit foggy and I want to be clear that I’m not going to prison. The point, Sherlock explains, with mild exasperation, is that we’re free to leave France whenever I’m released medically, and that no charges will be filed against me. Neither in France or at home. Which is a tremendous relief. I mostly believed it would be alright, but I wasn’t certain. 

Things get incrementally less foggy, but I start having some internal struggles with what happened. I have to tell myself repeatedly that she - I can’t even bring myself to think her name, either of them - was about to kill Sherlock, without hesitation or regret, and I had no other choice. But, she was still someone to me. Not sure what...but someone. It’s not easy to reconcile the nurse who shared my bed with the woman who was more than willing to kill both of us with a word from Moriarty. And it’s not easy to separate those women, either. 

My nightmares come back, mixed up memories of the war, and Sherlock hitting pavement with a sickening smack, and her face smiling at me, a gun in her hand, Sherlock behind me, and I can never shield him, never get myself between them before she shoots. I wake up sweating and breathless, and Sherlock gathers me to him and shushes me, lips against my temple, until I fall asleep again.

The day I get released, Mycroft finally wakes up. 

“Please just go be with Mycroft. He needs you WAY more than I do right now, okay? I’m just going to be packing up and signing papers. I honestly feel fine.” I say to Sherlock, after the fifth time in two hours that he’s come back to me after staying with Mycroft for twenty minutes or so. He’s running himself ragged between the two of us.

“Oh, he’s already driving me mad. He wants the oxygen out of his nose, he wants to eat - of course - he wants a newspaper, he wants his phone, he wants everything...I keep telling him I’m not a nurse and I’m not the British Government. He’ll just have to get one of them to cater to his every whim.” Sherlock’s doing that thing where he hides how relieved and happy he is with sarcasm and hate. It makes me grin. 

“So, what’s the plan, then? Staying in France until Mycroft is well enough to leave hospital?” I don’t relish going back to the same hotel, but we can always switch. 

“Oh, no. I don’t expect he’ll be out of hospital for weeks yet. No, we’re going HOME. We’ve got a flight in six hours. Mycroft has plenty of people to look after him. He’s no need of me.” Sherlock waves his hand at me like I’m mental for even suggesting it.

“You’re his BROTHER. Of course he needs you.” But honestly, I’ve never so badly wanted to go home in my entire life. I can almost smell 221B in my nostrils, standing in a hospital room, an English Channel away from it. I would give anything to sit in my chair and fall asleep with my feet next to the fire. To go sleep with Sherlock in our own bed. Have dinner at Angelo’s. Anything to make me feel normal. 

It’s been less than a month since the night we first slept together - I refuse to call it my stag night anymore - and our entire relationship has been tainted by this. I just want some time to settle in to who we’re going to be as a couple, to get used to this. I want to finally introduce Sherlock to Harry. I want us to work a normal case, a good bog standard murder or a theft, something easy that doesn’t involve us. I want us to go to the pub with Greg and Molly and hold hands and kiss in the cab on the way home. I just want to put this all behind us.

“John. We’re going home. Mycroft will be fine. I’m a phone call away. We.are.going.home.” Sherlock says it in such a way, it leaves no room to argue the point. And I don’t want to anyway. 

“Alright, Sherlock. Your way. Let’s go home.” Our eyes meet each other’s, and Sherlock gives me a soft slow smile. 

He leans over me, sitting on the edge the edge of the bed, and kisses me. For the first time since before I got shot, there’s some heat behind it. I reach up and skim my fingers over his jaw, up into his hair, my stomach tingling. He leans into me, tongue sweeping my lips open, and I know he’d love to push me down on the bed, but he’s holding back because of my arm. 

“Sherlock. It’s okay.” I smile, put my lips on his bottom one for a moment, and lean back. He straightens up, tugging on his shirt.

“Sorry. I just...I miss you. I’m sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair and turns away.

I get up and wrap my good arm around him from behind, rub my face against his shoulder blades. He’s stiff, trying not to respond too much. Spread my fingers across his stomach, and ruck his shirt up so I can put my hand on his bare skin. There we go. His back bends a little as I skate my hand all over his skin. He leans back into me with a sigh, and puts his hand on my hip, pulling me closer to him. Rocking up on my tiptoes, I press my lips to the back of his neck. 

“I miss you, too. When we get home…” I keep kissing the nape of his neck, my nose in those dense curls, tip of my tongue darting under the collar of his shirt and behind his ear. He’s rolling his head back and forth, his breathing getting heavier, and I let my hand wander down, brush over his groin. He starts, a small moan escaping him. 

“Oh, John, don’t, please don’t...I want you so badly right now.” He grabs my hand and moves it back up to his stomach. “It feels like forever.”

I give him one last sweep of lips over his neck, and turn him around to face me. “It does. It does feel like forever. Tonight. When we get home, we’re going to get take away, and we’ll have a bottle of wine, and then I’m going to take you to bed, and we’ll forget all of this.”

He smiles, looking at me from under his eyelashes, and ducks down to put his lips on my neck. It makes me tingle from head to toe. “I’ll be thinking about that all day now.”

I twine my one arm around his waist, and our lips connect. My whole body is responding to him. I want nothing more than to stumble over to the horrible hospital bed and lose myself in him, skin against skin, until we’re sweaty and sated and exhausted. 

Finally, when I can feel him getting hard against my stomach, we break apart. The look he’s giving me could melt glass, and it sends a lovely little shiver down my spine. He shuts his eyes, rubs his hands over his face, and flops down into the nearest wretchedly uncomfortable hospital chair. He looks up at me, eyes sparkling and a damnably flirtatious smile on his lips. “I cannot WAIT to get you home. Captain.”

“You little shit.” I walk over and settle myself on his lap, run a finger around his ear and over his lips. “Don’t you call me that unless you plan to do something about it.”

He reaches up and pulls my face down to his, still wearing that lethal smile. Then we’re kissing again, hard and sloppy. Sherlock’s hands drift down my back, and I put my good arm around his neck. I feel like a teenager, getting off in the MOST inappropriate place, because you just want the other person so badly, you can’t wait. You just don’t care. We haven’t been able to keep our hands off each other since this began, and now it’s been four days of stress and worry and not having any truly private moments. That’s impossible in hospital, someone’s always walking in, and the door to the hall is always open. And now I just can’t stop touching him. 

I slip my hand down, start undoing his top button. He growls, but doesn’t stop me. Kissing down his neck, touching my lips to every little freckle. He knows exactly what I’m doing, and laughs. I can feel his laugh rumbling under my mouth, and it fills up some of the hollowness I’ve had in me since we got to France. God, how I have missed this - the heat of his skin, the smell of him when he’s turned on. I can hardly believe we were able to survive each other for so long before without this kind of closeness, because I can’t live without it now. 

“Oh!” 

Sherlock and I break apart, me still on his lap. Mycroft’s assistant Anthea is standing at the door, Blackberry in her hand, staring at us with an embarrassed smile.

“Hi.” I wave at her, and Sherlock bursts out laughing. 

“Hi. Um...Mycroft sent me down here to fetch Sherlock. He’d like to see him. Before you, uh, head home.” She’s now smiling like that cat that ate the canary, and is back to furiously texting, as she always does. 

“Right. I have to pack, anyway.” I tap his arse with my hand as he walks away, and he shakes his head at me, grinning. “Go see your brother. I’ll be right here.”

He sends me that heated look again, full of promises for later on, and sweeps out the door behind Anthea. I allow myself a moment to breathe, and slip my arm out of the sling to give it a careful stretch. I’ll have physical therapy to do back home so I don’t lose my strength in that arm, but for now, it’s just stiff and sore. 

The hospital room is a mess. We’ve spread out all over it, clothes and newspapers and crisps bags. It looks like a poor man’s Baker Street. I laugh and start gathering clothes to stuff in our bags. I can’t wait to get home. 

***

Eight hours later, Sherlock’s standing behind me with all our bags, while I’m struggling to open the door of Baker Street with one hand. The handle gets wrenched away from me as the door swings open, and Mrs. Hudson is standing there, all trembling lips and watery eyes. 

“Oh, boys! It’s so good to have you home. Sherlock told me all about you being shot, John, oh my goodness.” She pulls me into a careful embrace.

I turn questioning eyes on Sherlock. He shrugs. “I called her. Thought she should know.”

A warm happiness spreads through me. These people are my family. More than the family I grew up in, more than my army buddies, the people I toiled through medical school alongside. Sherlock calling Mrs. Hudson is such an incredibly unexpected gesture of caring, I can’t help but stretch my arm out to him and draw him in, too. And all three of us are standing there hugging, and it’s ridiculous and sappy and silly, and very unlike all of us...but I can’t help it. I just love them both. And I’m so relieved to be home. 

Finally, we all step back from each other, and Mrs. Hudson is wiping her eyes. “Alright, boys. Enough of my blubbering. Go, go. I know you want to rest, John.”

I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “Mrs Hudson, you’re too good to us.”

“Nonsense.” She looks pleased, and nudges me toward the steps. “Go on.”

Sherlock’s hand presses into the small of my back as we go up, dragging the bags by his other hand. We get into 221B, the sight of which is so comforting, a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying leaves my shoulders. I flop down in my chair, and lean my head back, rubbing my good hand over the worn fabric of the arm. 

“Christ, it’s good to be home.” I open my eyes and look up at Sherlock, standing in the middle of the sitting room, still holding the bags, a bemused smile on his face. “What’s up with you? Sherlock?”

He shakes his head, swallows, and smiles at me. “Just...you’re really home. Before, with you know, everything, it sort of seemed like a dream that you were here. It felt tenuous. But now, it’s all over, and you’re still here.”

“Well, of course I am. What did you think, I’d change my mind?” I push myself out of my chair and walk over to him, slip an arm around his waist. “Hey. Answer me.”

“I did wonder. It just seemed to be good to be true. But now I know it’s for real, and you’re staying.” His arms go around me as he drops the bags with a thump. 

I tilt my face up and kiss his chin. “Of course I’m staying, you great stupid prat. Don’t ever say something so idiotic again, or I’ll start questioning how smart you really are.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” Sherlock gives me a sly smile, only one half of his mouth ticking up, eyes heavy lidded and glittering. His lips are gentle, but hungry. He cradles my head in his hand, and kisses a line from my mouth, over my chin, and down my throat. Oh god, it’s been days, but it feels like weeks, months - a long low groan escapes me, my cock already stiffening in my jeans. 

I twine the fingers of my good hand into his hair. “Fuck the take away.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Sherlock smiles against my throat. His hand is immediately on the hem of my shirt, pulling it up, hand underneath. Cold fingers from being outside, making me jump, roaming up over my stomach, curling tightly on my waist.

He pushes me over to my chair, and kneels in between my legs. He starts unbuttoning my shirt, his eyes so beautiful and shimmering in the low light, only one lamp turned on in the flat. His fingers work over every button gently, attentively. He pushes my shirt apart, eyes never leaving  
my face. He’s looking at me in a way I’ve never seen, his eyes calm and peaceful, his mouth in a soft smile.

I reach out and smooth his curls back from his forehead. “What’s that look about?” 

Instead of answering me, he leans forward and puts his lips on my stomach, a long lingering kiss. His hands slide next to my legs, behind my hips, fingers digging into the softness of my lower back. His face presses into my stomach, kissing me again. 

My hand slips over the top of his head, fingers through those curls I’ll never get enough of, to cradle the back of his head. He turns, so his cheek is laying against my bare stomach and inhales deeply. “It’s just...John, this is us. This is everything we once were, and more, and…”

He’s lost for words. I finish for him, like I always do, when he gets stuck somewhere in that big brain. “This the real start. This is no fucking Moriarty, no fucking assassin fiances, just me and you, at Baker Street, solving cases, and watching telly, and shagging each other brainless every night. Yeah?”

He giggles, and it is the most heartwarming sound I’ve ever heard. It just fills me up.

“How do you always know what I’m thinking, John?” He tilts his head up, looking at me with turquoise eyes from under those black lashes. 

God, I love him. It just increases every day. I think I can’t love him more, want him more, but I do. Every morning in hospital that I woke up to see his face next to mine, his long body uncomfortably folded into that miserable bed, I marveled at what we’ve become to each other. I’ve never in my life felt so intensely in love. 

“It’s my job. Now let’s get to the shagging portion of the evening. Because, fuck me, you are driving me mental right now.” 

He meets my mouth with a growl, tongue winding between my lips. The electricity between us is white hot, immediately. He rubs a palm over my cock in my jeans, and my choking, gasping, back arching reaction makes him bite down on my lower lip and rub even harder. His hand is rubbing slow circles over top of my jeans, the fabric making the friction almost unbearable. I don’t want him to stop. It feels amazingly good. His mouth is all over my stomach, my chest, up my neck, leaving cool tracks of saliva behind his hot tongue. I feel like I’m going to come in seconds. It’s not been this desperate since the first night. 

“Oh fuck, Sherlock, stop. Stop.” It takes every ounce of willpower to drag those words out of my mouth, my whole body screaming for him to keep going, to rub me off until I come in my pants. 

“Why? You seemed to be enjoying that immensely.” His mouth is against my neck, sucking, rolling my skin between his lips.

“Oh, fuck, yeah, ‘course I was...but this is the first time we’ve made love since before I got hurt, and I want it to be more than me getting my rocks off in a chair.”

Sherlock pulls back and looks at me, brow furrowed. “That’s the first time you’ve used that term.”

“What?” I feel drunk on a combination of painkillers and endorphins. My head weighs a hundred pounds. I let it fall back, my hand wandering down to drag my fingers across Sherlock’s neck.

“Make love. You’ve never said that before.” Sherlock’s got a strange look on his face, sort of far away. 

“Not good?” I take his face in my hand, make him look at me. 

He smiles, and takes my hand, presses my fingers to his mouth. “No. It’s...good. I like it.”

“Good. Well, then, Sherlock...take me to bed, and let’s make love. Not fuck in this chair. Okay?” Fingers across his jaw, I press my mouth to his. He sinks into me, and we stay that way, lazily kissing, tongues drifting across each other, until Sherlock rocks back on his heels and stands, pulling me with him.

“Well, come on then, Captain.” He bites his lower lip at me, and pulls me behind him, his eyes sizzling with arousal. 

“Yes, fuck, yes.” My mouth finds the side of his neck, and we stumble clumsily into the bedroom, arms wrapped around each other.

***

Sherlock takes off my shirt gently, lifting my sling over my head, giving me a moment to stretch my arm before he unbuttons my cuffs and pulls the shirt over my arms. Runs his hands down my forearms, and presses our palms together. 

“Can you lay on your stomach? Will that hurt your arm?” He whispers against my ear, lips brushing over my skin just enough to send shivers down my neck.

“Yeah, I think I can.” I give him a sideways glance, wondering a bit what he’s planning. But then I decide I’d rather be surprised, and I say nothing. 

“Good.” He winks at me, and then very purposefully unbuttons my jeans, and takes them off, tossing them on the floor. His fingers drift very gently down over my bandaged arm, and he kisses my shoulder, just above. “What you’ve done for me, John…”

“What you’ve done for me, Sherlock. It’s not a one way street.” I press myself up against him, twist my fingers in his hair, and nuzzle my face into his neck. He sighs, relaxes against me, and walks me backwards to the bed, his still chilly fingers splayed across my hips. 

He pushes me back, lays me down, rolls me over. I arrange my arm as comfortably as I can, waiting for him. I hear the rustle of clothes being taken off, feel the grin spreading across my face. Then his hands are on my calves, kneading gently, running up the backs of my legs, his hands so long they’re practically wrapped all the way around. Fingers tucking under the legs of my pants, he very slowly shimmies them off, trailing his tongue behind them.

My breathing quickens. Oh god, he’s making me mad. He returns his hands to my legs, and then runs them over my arse and up onto my back, lowering his weight carefully on top of me. 

“Good, John?” His voice is a hoarse whisper against my shoulder.

“Yeah, very good, Sherlock. Very good.” I squirm a bit underneath him, and feel him hard and hot against me. We both gasp.

Then he’s kissing me all over my back, open mouthed, tongue soft and wet. He plants his hands on either side of me, kissing his way down to my arse, and then back up again to the back of neck. I’m shaking now, skin over stimulated, every hair standing on end. I want this to last forever, and I feel like I could come in seconds, too. 

He buries his face in the side of my neck, lowering himself completely, so every inch of our skin is flush against each other. 

“Don’t ever die, John. I’ve never been more terrified in my life. Seeing you, bleeding, injured. I can’t...you cannot leave me.” He kisses my ear, drawing the lobe into his mouth. A hot jolt of arousal skids down my spine, making my hips grind forward into the mattress. 

“I won’t. I won’t, Sherlock. I won’t, baby. Oh, god, you’re making me mad.” He’s nibbling at my neck now, one hand gripping my hip, his hips gently rocking into me.

“Good. I mean to.” He kisses me a bit longer down my back, his hands running down my hips and my thighs, until I’m quivering from head to toe. I feel his hot breath on the small of my back, and then his tongue running down the cleft of my arse.

“Oh FUCK, baby. Oh fuck.” Fisting my hands in the sheets, I sink my teeth into the back of my hand, trying not to thrash. 

His tongue is delving deeper now, but hesitantly, having not yet been given permission for this before. I know he’s waiting for a sign from me that I’m okay with it. I push my hips up off the bed, spread my knees a bit. And the next dart of his tongue is deeper and much more assertive. Then his hands are curling around my hips, pulling me backwards and up, knees bending, and spreading me apart gently.

“Is your arm alright like this, John?” God, he’s still worried about my fucking arm. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine…” I can barely form a sentence.

His fingers are gentle, holding me in place, when his tongue is suddenly back on me, oh god, in me, just a quick flick, and then licking back up. Then in again, and down and up.

Absolutely inhuman noises are coming out of me. This is unspeakably arousing, I can’t believe we’ve never done this before. He keeps it up, and then suddenly one hand sweeps around my hip and his fingers are wrapped around my cock. Slowly, long pulls upward, gentle pressure. He knows exactly what I like by now, and I’m being taken apart piece by piece. 

“Oh, god, Sherlock. I’m going to...I can’t hold on…oh god, baby…” My whole body is tingling, my cock on fire, everything tightening. 

He immediately takes his hand off my cock, presses a kiss where his tongue has just left, and kisses around my hip. “Not yet. Turn over.”

It’s hard to flip with only one arm, especially when every muscle in my body is twitching with arousal. Sherlock sees me struggling, and puts steady hands on my waist, turning me gently. Once I’m on my back, he kisses up my belly, purposefully not touching my cock, and closes one hand over the side of my face. He goes in to kiss me, and then pulls back.

“Is it okay? If I kiss you, you know, after…”

“Wha...of course. You just gave me fifteen minutes of pure...I don’t even know how to describe that...and you’re going to ask if you can KISS me? Come here, you idiot.” I drag his face into mine, hard, by the back of his neck. 

He tastes like me, and like him, too, the two of us mingling together in his mouth, and it’s dizzying. Run my hand down his side, over his thin waist, the perfect swell of his hip, and pull him into me. I can’t get him close enough. We’re kissing like we’ll never get enough of each other, his lips closing over mine, pulling my skin into his mouth, my teeth nibbling his tongue, biting his lips. 

Without breaking the kiss, he stretches an arm out and gets the lube from the drawer. I immediately move my legs apart, but he shakes his head against my mouth.

“No, John. You. I want you inside me.”

“But I can’t...I can’t hold myself up.”

“You won’t have to.” His voice is so deep, so gorgeously silken and sensual, his lips on my neck now, swollen from kissing and impossibly soft. “Give me your hand.”

He rocks back, and I hold up my hand. He drips lube on my fingers, and puts his knees on either side of my hips, falling back over me. We smile at each other, and he nips at my jaw as I slip my hand down and push a finger inside of him. 

We both gasp. He’s so tight, and this feels so good. He rocks back on my hand, head falling backwards, his long neck flushed red, a sheen of perspiration on his skin.

“Another. Oh, fuck, John, another.” His voice is breaking.

“Yeah, baby, okay.” I can barely breathe the words out, especially when Sherlock reaches down and begins slowly stroking my cock again. “Oh fuck, fuck, oh god.”

The combination of him stroking me and me stroking him is too much. I can’t keep this up. He knows it, he knows how close I am. He takes his hand off me, and I am so rock hard, I’ve never been this hard. It’s right on the edge between pleasure and pain. 

He grabs the lube bottle again, drips it into his hand and passes his hand up and down my cock as lightly as he can. It still makes me jerk into his hand, and he grins. “Ready?”

“Oh my god, yes.” I slide my hand around to his hip, feeling the muscles jumping under his skin, as he plants his knees and guides me inside him, sinking down slowly. 

He rolls his hips in a circle, leaned forward a bit, hands resting on my chest. My entire torso contracts, my back arching, every part of me is shuddering with pleasure. He leans backward, bringing his hands to the top of my thighs, and starts a slow rolling rhythm that makes my eyes roll back. 

“You like that?” He pushes down harder, rolling forward, fingers digging into my thighs. 

“Oh my god, Sherlock, oh my god. Don’t stop, don’t stop.” I reach forward and take his cock in my hand, start a slow upstroke, pacing it to the rocking of his hips against me. 

His head snaps up, eyes following the movement of my hand on him. Then his eyes find mine. And we’re locked together, in that way we’ve always been, even before we were this - when we can’t rip our eyes away from each other’s, because there’s so much that passes between us in these moments. I love you. I need you. I can’t live without you. You’re my best friend. You’re the best person I’ve ever known. I want to be with you the rest of our lives. You’re everything I could ever need. We rarely voice this stuff to each other, but when we look at each other this way, we don’t have to. 

I tighten my grip on him, pulling faster. He groans, speeds up his hips, pushing me farther into him with every movement forward. I can’t hold on anymore. My orgasm rips through me like a firecracker going off, and I can hear myself shouting out Sherlock’s name, but there’s cotton in my ears and lights flashing behind my eyelids, my whole body arching, paralyzed for a moment with pleasure. And seconds later, my eyes still clenched shut and my body quaking through the aftershocks, I feel Sherlock tighten around me, and go still, and then there’s hot liquid all over my hand, and he’s gasping my name.

I open my eyes and look at him. He is wrecked. Chest heaving, lips swollen and beautiful, hair all over the place. But his eyes are glowing, black and deep. He runs his hands up my chest, and leans over me, pressing lazy kisses to my neck and my jaw. I turn my head and find his mouth, kissing him hard.

He climbs off me and stretches out by my side, head on my shoulder, hand on my belly. “How’s your arm?”

I laugh. “Oh, Sherlock. Only you would say something like that after the most mind blowing sex we’ve ever had.”

He furrows his brow. “Well, how is it? I just want to make sure you're alright.”

“Yes, you ridiculous arse, it’s beautiful. It’s perfect. Everything’s perfect right now.” I smile at him, and he smiles back, and snuggles closer, his knee crooking up over my leg.

We lay that way for a long while, heavy and comfortable, until I feel myself drifting off. But I don’t actually want to drift off. I want food, and tea, and to be in the sitting room with Sherlock and feel like I’m really home.

“Hey. Hey, baby, let’s get up and order some food. Take a shower. Okay? Hey, you awake?” I nudge him with my shoulder.

“Yes, I’m awake. Mmmm. I like this 'baby' business." He kisses my shoulder, nibbling a little, and looks up at me, eyes blue and dark.

"Do you? I thought you would hate it. I try to stop myself, but I just can't help it sometimes. It just slips out." Kiss his forehead, sweat slicked and salty.

"Well, I like it. It makes me feel...owned. In a good way."

He nuzzles into my neck, throws an arm across my chest.

"I don't own you. I belong to you. And you to me. It's different." I kiss the top of his head now, curls damp and sweaty. "How about that shower?"

"A shower would be lovely. Together, yes?”

“Well, I can’t get my arm wet, so yeah, a bit of help would be nice.”

He gives me a wicked grin, and I smack his hip. “I’m not seducing you, Sherlock. I really do need some help.”

“You’re not seducing me YET.” He grins, big and open. I love it when he smiles like that. “Come on, then.”

After a shower, with a lot of kissing and soapy hands skidding all over each other, Sherlock helps me undo and redo the bandages on my arm, get into my pyjamas, and puts my sling back on for me. As he’s buttoning my shirt, I look up at him and catch his face with my hand. “You’ve taken such good care of me. Thank you.”

His smile is a bit abashed. “You’d do the same for me, John. You have. It’s what we do for each other.”

“You’re right. It is. I love you.” I kiss him gently, closing my hand over his.

“I love you, too.” He finishes with my button, and we fall into each other, just embracing for a long moment, my face against his dressing gown.

“Alright then. Take away?”

***

I shut the lid of the take away container, and lean back into the soft leather of the sofa. “That was perfect. Everything since we got home is perfect.”

Sherlock hums at me, his laptop open on his knees, his attention elsewhere. 

“Looking for a case?” I slide over next to him, drop an arm behind his shoulders. 

“Mmmm. Checking the blog.” 

I smile. “Well, tell me when you’ve found something interesting. I’m going to watch some telly.”

He nods at me. I flip the telly on, rerun of Graham Norton, and settle back into the sofa. I languidly run my fingers up and down Sherlock’s back, and he wriggles back into me, a little smile on his face. This is us. This is everything that makes me feel normal, and right, and myself. I can hardly believe now that I ever thought I wanted something different. 

“Oh, closed door murder in Perth. No suspects. Burglar alarm still enabled. Fancy a holiday to Scotland, John?” Sherlock turns to me, eyes alight.

A huge grin spreads across my face. “Course. Course I do.”

The End (or the Beginning)


End file.
